


NSFW

by defractum (nyargles)



Series: pornstar au [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Porn, Christmas, Consensual Kink, F/M, London, M/M, Multi, Pornstars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a pornstar, Grantaire is a fan.</p><p>“He’s a porn star,” hisses Grantaire, clutching the phone. “I have wanked off to this guy. I have literally <i>just</i> wanked off to this guy, Eponine, what do I do?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All Les Mis fic I write are and will be dedicated to [tellthemstories](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthemstories) for dragging me kicking and screaming into the fandom even though she hasn't even read this one yet. 
> 
> And this one's for [wickednotevil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wickednotevil) for egging me on.
> 
> In response to a [kinkmeme prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13775.html?view=11802575#t11802575).

**ponine:** _I’m setting you up with a friend of a friend. say thank you._

**R:** _Nonononononono piss off._

**ponine:** _he’s fucking gorgeous, totally your type._

**R:** _PISS OFF D:_

**R:** _...How gorgeous?_

Grantaire huddles in his chair and bites at his lip to stop himself smiling. He can practically hear Eponine cackling to herself on the other end of the computer as he watches the little ‘ _ponine is composing a message_ ’ icon blink in and out. He flicks his eyes briefly over to the background of his screen where he’s running some fixes on his latest coding before he sends it out to his testers.

**ponine:** _would climb like a tree if he was straight_

**R:** _fb link? I refuse to believe you haven’t fb stalked him already._

**ponine:** _you know me too well. he doesn’t have a fb, sadface._

**R:** _who doesn’t have a fb these days? if only to keep in touch with people you’d rather not have to actually speak with but suspect you might need to ask a favour of at some point_

**ponine:** _you preach girl_

**R:** _piss off D: you’re so mean to me_

**ponine:** _yes i am :D_

With a snort, Grantaire waves his middle finger at the screen, even though he knows Eponine can’t see it (or maybe exactly because Eponine can’t see it). It’s true; he’s been a particularly long time between dates, one-night stands, boy-shaped things, whatever.

**R:** _don’t you have work you should be doing?_

**ponine:** _what’s the point of being self-employed if i can’t take breaks when i want to? i’m telling him to add you btw. he’s really pretty, don’t blow this. i’m living vicariously through you :3_

**R:** _I’m not going to be online, i’m busy DOING WORK D:_

**ponine:** _bet you’re just going to watch porn_

Grantaire freezes, and the porn site he’d just brought up loads and flicks into action.

**R:** _No i’m not >____>_

He laughs, and minimises her chat screen. He is, technically, working: his diagnostics are still running and likely will be for at least the next ten minutes. After that, all he has to do is send it off to Bossuet again, wait for the feedback and then they should be ready to launch. In the meantime though, there really isn’t much more he can do, and so he’s going to spend the time watching porn instead because he is a healthy adult male and these are his life choices.

Not even bothering to scroll down the list of videos, Grantaire goes straight to the tags, and clicks ‘Enjolras’. He’s been a fan of this particular company (called _Real (Big) Boys_ , and isn’t it refreshing to see a sense of humour?) for long enough to know that there are new Enjolras solo videos out once every two weeks. He has the buttons of his jeans unflicked and a hand down his pants when wavy blond hair fills his screen.

Grantaire does appreciate a man in uniform, and Enjolras fills out the sharp red jacket well. “Just taking some off-duty me time,” says Enjolras, smiling at the camera. He flicks his hair out of the way and starts to undo the shiny, shiny buttons, running his hands down his chest. “Mmm,” he says, pinching his nipples. He’s Grantaire’s favourite for a reason. It’s not just that he’s ridiculously good-looking, because there’s more to life than being ridiculously good-looking, but he genuinely seems to have fun doing what he does.

Enjolras slides his fingers down the v shape of his pelvic muscles and looks at the camera with hooded eyes. “I should have worn underwear this morning. I’ve been _chafing_ all day.” He slides the trousers down his narrow hips without even having to undo the zip, the skinny bastard, and sure enough, his cock is already half-erect.

It’s not usual for Grantaire to leave the sound up on porn videos; the dialogue is usually cheesy and stilted and the dirty talk is just ridiculous, but there’s something about the way Enjolras talks. It’s scripted, sure, but it sounds genuine. He doesn’t sound like an actor; he sounds like a man getting off in front of a camera and sharing that fact with an audience and enjoying it, a lot.

Grantaire strokes himself and lets Enjolras’s persuasive voice fill his brain. His vision goes fuzzy at the sides as he concentrates on his own pleasure, on watching Enjolras stroke himself, finger himself. It’s the small, realistic things, like the way he takes a second to pause after he slides in a second finger to give himself time to breathe, the way that his voice breaks off every so often as he gets lost in sensation, the way the lube trickles down the smooth skin of his thigh.

“I hope this video is long enough already because I need to come,” says Enjolras eventually, panting, smiling charmingly even though his hair is falling in waves across his face and Grantaire can see the tension ridden across his stomach. “I need to come, _right, now_.” With a final few twists of his hand, Enjolras groans obscenely and surrenders to his orgasm. His head falls back and his legs pull up and Grantaire can see him clench around the fingers he has inside himself.

Grantaire moans, and hits the pause button, eyes focussed on that shot of Enjolras as he finishes himself off. Hot liquid sprays the palm of the hand he has cupped over his cock, and Grantaire slumps back into his chair. He basks around in the relaxation for a few moments, and then hits play on the rest of the video, lazily teasing his own slit every often and shuddering at the overstimulation.

Enjolras flops over backwards as his come sprays across his abs and he smiles at the camera. “I hope that was good for you, because it was good for me,” he says, eyes lidded. The video sound fades there, and there’s just a couple more minutes of Enjolras rolling around on the bed, slick with sweat and lube and come.

Tissues are kept on Grantaire’s desk and he cleans himself up efficiently, stretching himself out afterwards. The porn video gets closed, and he’s pleasantly surprised that the diagnostics have come back completely clean apart from a minor incident with a missing close tag. He quickly fixes that, and uploads the game. Also, his chat is blinking.

Ignoring it for a moment, Grantaire pulls out his phone. ‘Ready for testing! You know where to find it. Lemme know what you think :D :D x’ is the text he shoots over to Bossuet, and then turns his attention back to the computer. Grantaire brings up the chat window, fully ready to type ‘ _right, porn over, wanking done. you?_ ’just to annoy Eponine when he realises it’s not her. ‘E has added you as a friend’, it says instead when he clicks the blinking orange box.

**E:** _Hi, sorry for the random add. Eponine gave me your username, I hope that’s all right?_ ’

Grantaire sighs, and readies himself to deal with real people again. (This is why he likes porn: no interactions with real people required. No expectations.)

**R:** _Hey, np. Sorry, was just_

Grantaire breaks off for a moment to look at the clock and try to figure out what boring people with 9-5 jobs do at this time of day.

**R:** _Hey, np. Sorry, was just making food. How do I know you’re not a creepy middle-aged dude trying to prey on innocent schoolgirls?!_

(Humour is an appropriate ice-breaker, right? Grantaire can’t remember appropriate social cues anymore.)

**E:** _I’ve met Eponine and I’d hope she was a good enough friend to mention that small fact if I were… I also really hope you’re not an innocent schoolgirl._

**R:** _Eponine is the worst friend she totally wouldn’t D:_ _Alright, fine, how do YOU know that I’M not a creepy middle-aged dude trying to prey on... a twenty-something man, I presume?_

**E:** _26\. :D Eponine showed me a picture of you? I already went through the process of unfairly judging whether you were worthy of my time based solely on what you look like, which is awful of me, I’m sorry._

**E:** _Although if it helps, you clearly passed?_

**R:** _I can’t believe you know what I look like and I don’t know what you look like D:_

Grantaire grins. Ability to take a joke: he likes that. Already knows what he looks like and still added him: he likes that too. Admitting the bullshittery behind judging a blind date on a photo? Even better.

**E:** _Is that a request for a photo? You could just ask_

**R:** _Yes? Nudes also accepted, just so you know._

He rereads his words uncertainly; he’s not sure that wasn’t going too far but it’s been sent now. A file is being sent through though, so he breathes a quick sigh of relief.

**E:** _Haha, maybe you should make sure I’m not a creepy internet stalker first before asking?_

Grantaire snorts out loud, and clicks on the picture. Familiar blond hair loads onto his screen, and Grantaire blinks. He checks, double checks. That’s the jpeg that E sent him, alright. His fingers hover over the keys as he tries to think of something appropriate to say.

**R:** _Did you send the right file…?_

**E:** _...Yes...?_

Grantaire stares at the words on his screen, and then clicks open the photo again. He yanks out his phone again. This is too important to be asked over chat. He dials up Eponine, and the moment she answers, he blurts out, “Enjolras?!?!?!!!” At least, he hopes that the exclamation marks and question marks are audible in his tone, because he desperately needs them to be heard and okay maybe a little too much of his correspondence is done over typing.

“What about him?” asks Eponine. “Did he send you a picture yet? Isn’t he ridiculously pretty? It’s so unfair.” Grantaire gurgles down the phone at her. “R? What is it?”

“Do you know what he does?” Grantaire asks, trying to sound casual, and probably just sounding demented. “Erm, as a living?”

“No, Marius didn’t say. Why? Does he work for Apple or something? Can he sponsor our app or–”

“He’s a _porn star_ ,” hisses Grantaire, clutching the phone. “I have wanked off to this guy. I have literally _just_ wanked off to this guy, Eponine, _what do I do_?”

Eponine, to her credit, doesn’t immediately burst out laughing. Instead, it comes as a sort of subtle influx where Grantaire can hear her silently giggling, never mind that it’s _silent_ and then it erupts in a very undignified snort. “Oh my god Grantaire. Oh my god. Oh my– I wonder if Marius knows.”

“Eponine,” says Grantaire despairingly. “I have seen him with come all over his face. I have seen him strapped to a bed wearing only a ballgag and a cock ring. I have seen him take multiple dicks up the arse. _Multiple dicks. At the same time._ ”

“Oh my god, _stop,_ ” is all Eponine seems able to say through her wheezing and she is just the worst best friend ever.

“Epo _nine_ ,” whines Grantaire.

“Okay, okay, sorry. Sorry,” says Eponine, still succumbing to occasional fleeting giggles. “Look, okay, he seemed interested enough in you when I mentioned you. He’s obviously looking for _something_ or he wouldn’t have bothered to add you. And, and! Upside! At least you don’t have to have that awkward conversation where you try and find out whether he’s completely vanilla!”

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire and hangs up on her.

He looks back at the computer, and winces at the messages he’s not read.

**E:** _...er, hello?_

**E:** _So, I’ve got to go. Never mind, don’t worry about it. Adding someone online for a chat is always a bit awkward, right?_

_E has logged off._

Aw, shit. Grantaire checks to see if he’s come back on again since, but no such luck. Enjolras probably thinks Grantaire took one look at his picture and wasn’t remotely interested, which is frankly ridiculous because he’s gorgeous. Just like Eponine said. Grantaire guiltily saves the photo, and stops to think out what he wants to say before sending an offline message and hoping that Enjolras will get it.

**R:** _Aw, crap, I’m sorry, wasn’t ignoring you deliberately! I was on the phone to Eponine, you can ask her. Do you want to meet up for coffee sometime? I’m not a morning person but otherwise I’m self-employed so I’m flexible._

He hesitates for a moment longer, adds his phone number at the bottom and clicks enter. Then he re-reads the message and his brain plummets into the gutter. _Flexible_! Ha! Grantaire buries his face in his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire’s phone pings halfway through a design session and it registers somewhere in the back of his mind, but the rest of him is immersed in whether his little cartoon cloud should be at 56% opacity or 57% opacity so he doesn’t get to it until a couple of hours later. He stretches out his fingers and sends the adverts off to Eponine to proof and work her PR magic, and goes for his usual phone/email/internet catch-up.

‘ _No problem, I had to go back to work anyway. How about Friday, around 2pm? I’ll be in the Warren St area?’_

A smile spreads across Grantaire’s face before he can help it, relief coursing through him that he hadn’t completely offended Enjolras and run him off.

‘ _Sure! Have you ever been to TAP on tcr?’_

Barely five minutes pass when he gets a reply: ‘ _The one with the bike, right? Sounds good. See you then :D’_

Grantaire clicks out of the text, and calls Eponine again.

“I love the little owl,” says Eponine the moment she picks up. “It’s tiny and adorable and will definitely sell this thing and make us shitloads of money, I approve. I’m plastering it all over tumblr and facebook.”

“Cool,” says Grantaire brightly. “I’ve got a tonne of different resolutions for it; they’re all up on the FTP server. Also, there’s a version of her with a bow? Check it out, I’m not sure if it’s too... icky girly. I mean, it’s a green bow but still, you know. And there’s one where she’s blowing up a squirrel, I think you’ll like that one too. Also, I have a date on Friday.”

“Ooh. With–”

“With Enjolras, yes. The porn star. _Multiple dicks,_ Ponine.”

Eponine is laughing again and Grantaire can’t help but laugh along with her. “He’s also very intelligent and let Marius stay with him for like a month after he got kicked out _and_ donates to four different charities,” says Eponine. “Do you want me to come and discreetly stalk you in case it goes terribly wrong?”

“You’re the bestest,” says Grantaire.

~

Grantaire is freaking out. There are, he thinks, unspoken rules for when you meet someone reasonably famous you’ve always admired about how to not be a creepy weirdo. Such things involve not following them home, not taking photographs without asking, not groping them, instead maybe simply complimenting their work and not making horrific sexual advances.

The problem is that any compliments Grantaire might have would be things like ‘I greatly admire your ability to deepthroat’, which is not only inappropriate but kind of also falls into the horrific sexual advances category.

They hop off the tube at Tottenham Court Road (and wow, he’d almost forgotten that it actually works now, what with it having been closed for _years_ before the Olympics) and head down to the coffeeshop. Tottenham Court Road is a myriad of harrassed businesspeople, university students and tourists pretty much at all times, and Grantaire and Eponine float amongst them effortlessly. Eponine splits off to head into The Court for a greasy, greasy burger and a cheap pint and to await any potential distress calls from Grantaire. 

The coffeeshop is almost always pretty busy, but they’ve just got past the rush and so Grantaire actually manages to secure both a drink and a table by the time Enjolras appears. “Hey,” says Grantaire, waving a hand before surreptitiously wiping the sweat from his palm off onto his jeans. Enjolras waves back, choosing to order a drink before joining him.

Grantaire watches as he counts out exact change, and pops something in both the tip jar and the charity box on the counter. He could pass for a university student in his red coat and skinny jeans. His hair is even more radiant in person. Grantaire had, somehow, expected him to look more like a walking porn star, although now he thinks about it, he’s not exactly sure what one would look like, unless he were to parade around stark naked.

“Hi, I’m Enjolras,” says Enjolras, joining him at the table with a hand out, his hair windswept around his face. “Sorry, I’m a bit late. Work.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m free the whole afternoon,” says Grantaire shaking his hand. “Grantaire, but you already knew that. How was, um, work?” He stumbles over the word and his face colours as his brain finally connects the dots from ‘porn star’ to ‘work’.

“Not bad,” says Enjolras, unwinding his scarf and finger-combing his hair back into place. “Technical difficulties. You know how you can use a camera and recording equipment day in, day out, and there’s always a moment at the beginning where it just doesn’t work?”

“Yeah, says Grantaire, smiling despite his nerves. “Erm, about the – the other day? I swear, promise, that I did not see your photo and abandon the chat.”

Enjolras laughs, colouring slightly. “It’s okay. I did, I’ll admit, have a moment where I wondered.”

Grantaire looks down at his coffee. “Well, I lie. I did abandon the chat. But not because I was – you know, repulsed. Because I’m not, I’m more surprised you aren’t repulsed by me, but –” Grantaire can recognise the signs of when he starts to babble, and cuts it short. “–it’s because I recognised your face, and freaked out.” He peeps up from his coffee.

Enjolras blinks.

Grantaire goes red, and busies himself with a gulp of coffee.

Enjolras leans forward, and says, very, very pleasantly, “I hope you’re not trying to chat me up because you’ve seen me _impale_ myself on a ten inch dildo and think that just because I work in the porn industry, I’m easy.”

Grantaire choked and inhales half a mouthful of coffee, and then splutters. He takes deep breaths, trying to talk and hack it back up at the same time. “Oh my god. No. _No_.” To his credit, Enjolras does look a bit worried when Grantaire can’t seem to stop coughing, and offers him a paper napkin.

“Thanks,” says Grantaire eventually, taking the napkin and wiping his face. “Oh my god. You’re terrifying. I love you. I also really like that one, that one with the Royal Guard uniform? That’s a compliment by the way, not a creepy sexual advance and oh my god I’m going to shut up now.”

Enjolras frowns at him.

“Sorry,” says Grantaire hastily. “I just – never mind. Ignore. Rewind the last three minutes. I’m here because Eponine thinks I need to interact with new people. Or… any people at all, in fact. I clearly need the practice. I didn’t realise who you were until you sent me your photo and by then you’d already made me laugh twice so I figured it was still worth a shot, right?”

Enjolras regards him for a long moment, and Grantaire thinks he might have blown it until he twists a strand of blond hair behind one ear, and says, “At least I don’t have to have the conversation when I tell you I get screwed by other people for a living. I have friends betting on how you’d take it.”

Grantaire laughs, a loud bark of a sound. “Put down a bet and we can split it.”

Eponine’s ring tone rings out then, and Grantaire startles even though he knew it was coming. “Sorry, sorry,” he says sheepishly, turning it on silent when half the cafe glares at him. “That’s my ten minutes in phone call for if I need saving. Hi, Ponine. It’s cool, he’s not turned out to be an axe murderer or even more socially incompetent than I am.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that just yet,” says Enjolras loudly enough that Eponine can surely hear it on her end, and she snickers at him.

“Eponine! Help!” mock-whispers Grantaire. “He’s not socially incompetent, which means he’s possibly still an axe murderer. Eponine!” She laughs, and hangs up on him.

Grantaire looks up to see Enjolras’s face screwed up like he’s trying not to laugh. “She’s the worst best friend,” he says mournfully.

Another ringtone bursts out, and Grantaire starts, looking down at his phone before realising that it’s not his phone. “Oh, that’s probably my ‘I hope you haven’t murdered them yet, Enjolras’ reminder,” says Enjolras with an evil grin.

“Oh my god,” is all Grantaire can say, because Enjolras is, is wonderful and terrifying and a force of nature and he’s only had two conversations with the man and he can’t stop grinning. This is ridiculous.

“Courf, I’m fine. _He’s_ fine. Yes, I haven’t – His name is Grantaire and he’s already seen me naked. He likes the one with the Royal Guard uniform.” (Grantaire whimpers helplessly.)

When he hangs up, Grantaire asks, “Courf, as in Courfeyrac?” He recognises the name, he thinks.

“Yes– oh, hmm. I guess you’ve probably also seen most of my friends naked,” says Enjolras with a shrug.

“Your friends – and you – do you all use your _actual names_ in porn?”

“Yes?” Enjolras shrugs at Grantaire’s wide-eyed look. “All of my close friends already know, obviously. Most of them run the company with me. Why would I hide it? It’s also nice to be able to go to industry events and not be called Brett Bareback or… you get my point.”

“Brett Bareback,” repeats Grantaire incredulously, eyes squinting upwards as he laughs. “But surely that means if your family–”

“It’s an unintended side-effect,” says Enjolras. “They disinherit me because they disagree with my ‘liberal views’ because apparently that’s what being bisexual is, and my father wants to go into politics but every time someone googles him, the first two hits are videos of me getting deepthroated and in a threesome and the third is a link to an article about my HOTROD newcomer award.” He smiles serenely, and Grantaire might just be falling in love. “So, what do you do?”

“How do I follow that up?” says Grantaire, scrunching his nose up. “Wow. Erm, I work with Eponine? I guess technically we run a company together, but since there’s only four of us, that sounds a bit pretentious. I designed a silly little app in my spare time and she helped me sell it and it, er, became surprisingly popular? So we quit our jobs over what we made off it and now I design cute time-wasting games if I feel like it, she does the business and advertising end of it, and our friends Bossuet and Musichetta do our game testing and focus group surveys.”

“Quite the entrepreneur. Eponine, ah, gave me the impression you did something else.” Enjolras is pulling out a smartphone – not an iPhone, so Grantaire has no idea what it is – and opens the app store. “Show me?” Grantaire takes the phone and scrolls through. He doesn’t have to go very far, and he points it out. “In the top ten paid games,” says Enjolras, impressed, and buys it.

“You don’t have to–” Grantaire blushes.

“This is sickeningly cute,” says Enjolras as the opening credits bring forth an animated basket of kittens. “Jehan would love this. You have to – you have to save the stray kittens from being turned into pies? What is this cruelty? Why would you _do_ that?” His head dips, and Grantaire is left staring at Enjolras’s perfect hair as he hunches over his phone to save the fictional kittens.

Very soon, Grantaire is shuffling his chair across the room next to Enjolras’s so that he can see the screen. Their hair brushes against each other’s and Grantaire has his chin over Enjolras’s shoulder. He points out tips for saving the kittens, and resolutely does not laugh when Enjolras makes a mistake and a tiny mewling kitten falls into a steaming vat and gets turned into a pie and his face _falls_. 

“This is horrible,” says Enjolras petulantly, eventually, tearing his eyes away and putting his phone down, and Grantaire has to take a sip of his coffee to stop himself from cooing. “I mean, not to insult your app or–”

“It’s fine,” says Grantaire, wafting his apology away with one hand. “I know what you mean. It’s supposed to make you want to save the kittens, after all.” He hastily leans back, abruptly aware how close they are. “It’s just something I knocked up in my spare time and Eponine thought it was amusing and thought it might make us some extra cash. What do you do for fun? I mean, not that your work doesn’t, er, sound – fun –” He goes red and trails off.

“Watch porn,” says Enjolras calmly, and Grantaire makes a curious noise like he wishes he hadn’t started down this train of conversation. “I mean, I am also CEO. Courfeyrac’s COO and Combeferre’s CFO and everyone else is in charge of something or other and between us, we consume a huge amount of porn.” Grantaire makes a slightly different noise that he hopes conveys ‘please, do carry on’ because he’s not sure if he can manage to form appropriate words. Enjolras looks at him, amused. “We have porn-viewing nights and we sit around and criticise other people’s porn. You could come join us.”

Grantaire puts his hand on Enjolras’s, and says, very solemnly, “You do realise that it’s fairly bad etiquette to go on a first date with someone and invite them over to watch porn, right?”

With a smile, Enjolras looks deep into Grantaire’s eyes in return. “You do realise that it’s fairly bad etiquette to go on a first date with someone, having seen them being gangbanged before, right?” And Grantaire does feel a little bit bad about that one because he has actually watched that particular video a, uh, _few_ times but then Enjolras leans forward, parting his lips, and kisses Grantaire. It’s nothing intense, just a press of warm, smooth lips against Grantaire’s own and the slightest, tantalising slip of tongue.

Grantaire has fantasised about these lips numerous times. He's watched them slip around an outreached finger or swallow a cock down whole; he's watched them press over necks and nipples and bare arses. They're firmer than he would have thought, seeing them on camera, and something that goes entirely unseen is the massaging pressure that Enjolras gives them, so when Enjolras starts to lean back, Grantaire chases those lips forward, putting his hands on Enjolras's waist to steady himself.

He can feel the hot, humid heat of where Enjolras's mouth is, he tastes like coffee, strong and sweet, and Grantaire stretches his tongue in that direction, sliding it alongside Enjolras's when he finds it, and – "Oh my god you fucking poofters."

Grantaire's head snaps upwards, eyes wild and lips swollen, immediately ready for a fight when he realises that Eponine is standing over them, one hand on her hip and the other brandishing her phone, anger tempered by the sweet smirk she's hiding. "I thought you'd ended up kidnapped or stabbed, you tosspot," she says, and stomps back out of the coffeeshop.

Checking his phone, Grantaire shows Enjolras. “Whoops. Three missed calls. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Enjolras, licking his lips like he’s relishing the last taste of Grantaire and wow, doesn’t that just make his insides go inexplicably squishy? “What’s the time? Damn, really? Either that was a really long kiss or I spent about half an hour playing your cat game. I’ve got to get back to work soon.”

He stands and gathers his things, and hovers as Grantaire does the same, looking around the table three times for his phone as he gets distracted by the pleasant tingling of his lips. He straightens as he seems to visibly make a decision. “Do you - er, you said you were free the whole afternoon? Do you want to –” He points in a vague gesture leading out of the coffeeshop and then stops. “Never mind, it was a stupid thing to–”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to raise one eyebrow. “Want to come and... watch you have hot kinky sex with other people? Sure, why not.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Please note additional tags - the pairing for the fic is e/R, but for obvious reasons, various other characters will be having bucketloads of casual/professional sex with each other, which is what the Enjolras/Combeferre tag is for...

“No way,” says Grantaire, gaping up. “How much sperm did you have to donate to afford this? And you turned it into _porn studios_?”

“This one,” says Enjolras, casually walking in as if they’re not standing on Park Crescent, where it can cost three-quarters of a million pounds to buy a single flat and apparently _Real (Big) Boys_ owns _eight_ of them in a huge block. “None of us had to actually buy them. Marius donated them to the company when his grandfather died and his inheritance came in so that we could stop shooting porn out of Combeferre’s parents’ cellar. That got awkward sometimes.”

“I need to be better friends with Marius,” says Grantaire dazedly. He wants to either laugh or cry when he walks inside and the gleaming  architecture is complemented with overflowing crates of porn DVDs, porn mags and sex toy catalogues. There’s also a horrendously large fountain in the lobby, where a lean youth sculpted in the Neoclassical style is ejaculating the water toward the entrance hall, caught in the throes of ecstasy.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire whispers, resisting two very different urges – one to run up and press his cheek to the fountain and stroke its marble smoothness because it is _exquisitely carved_ and the second to take every single magazine he can see and stuff them under a giant mattress somewhere like his father might suddenly walk in and see them.

Enjolras follows where his eyes are looking, and blushes. “Ah – yes. That was what Courfeyrac bought us to commemorate our fifth anniversary. He insisted on installing it right here, for when visitors come.”

“Did Courfeyrac also come up with the company name?”

“Yes, however did you guess?” says Enjolras dryly, hanging up both their coats and leading Grantaire through to what was probably a living room at some point.

“Enjolras! We’re just running through the – is this Grantaire?” A willowy person stands up and peers around Enjolras, eyes lighting up. Grantaire doesn’t entirely recognise them, but then again, he can’t go walking around expecting every new person he sees to be a porn star just because it’s happened to him once. Instead, he waves at Marius, whom he does recognise.

“Your idea of a first date is to bring your date home to watch you getting fucked by other people? Enjolras, that’s shit,” says Courfeyrac. He stands up and holds out a hand for Grantaire to shake, which makes his soft-looking dressing gown gape open.

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire, because he is a sexually active gay male and it is almost impossible for him to _not_ glimpse Courfeyrac’s cock, limp though it might be right now. He shakes Courfeyrac’s hand, and watches his cock sway. “Nnnrgh,” he says, because saying ‘I want to go down on you and feel you go hard in my mouth’ to your date’s friend is definitely a third date sort of comment at least and he hasn’t got this far in life without retaining _some_ sort of verbal filter.

“Courf,” says Enjolras with both exasperation and amusement, and his hands are on Grantaire’s waist, leading him to sit down on the sofa.

“I think you broke him, Courf,” says someone else, Combeferre, Grantaire thinks, and his voice is kind even though Grantaire can tell that he’s trying not to laugh. Grantaire groans, and plops his head down on Enjolras’s shoulder. He’s not even that embarrassed; he just really likes Enjolras’s shoulder, and wonders briefly how much nuzzling he can get away with before Enjolras notices what he’s doing.

Courfeyrac pulls his dressing gown closed and ties it firmly, laughing. Combeferre sits down on Grantaire’s other side, and pats his knee comfortingly. “It does take a while to get used to. You’re better than Marius was, at least. I don’t think he could look any of us in the eye for about a month after he found out, and it wasn’t because he was staring at our cocks either. Combeferre,” he says, holding his hand out.

“I got over it,” says Marius indignantly, even though his complexion betrays his flush.

“And Jehan,”says the unknown, taking Grantaire’s hand and kissing it instead of shaking it. “I mostly do directing and and lighting and camerawork, because Enjolras has nary a creative nor romantic bone in his body. He’d use energy-saving lightbulbs if he could.”

“We keep him around for the passion and vision,” says Combeferre, clasping a hand over Enjolras’s mouth as he tries to protest.

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” quips Grantaire mildly, and Jehan chuckles.

“You’ll fit right in.”

~

When Grantaire had said that he would like to watch Enjolras having hot, kinky sex with someone else, he had maybe not thought it through entirely. Grantaire follows them through and stays in the out of shot half of the studio, and the other half of the studio is decked out like a Ke$ha music video. There’s bottles of alcohol lying around, a discoball and lava lamps in shot, a bowl of condoms lying there like snacks and, for some reason Grantaire cannot fathom, a light sheen of glitter across every single surface.

The room is heated, so that no one has to suffer with cold balls whilst trying to make porn, and Grantaire sheds his hoodie. Somehow, between the time he’s grappling with the sleeves and he has managed to yank it over his head, Enjolras has managed to peel off his jumper and shirt, and is adjusting the sofa cushions. Grantaire admires the way his back curves into the swell of his arse, and heaps his hoodie onto his lap. He has a feeling that he’ll need it.

He watches Jehan run around and fiddle with the lighting, making it dark and sensual and yet perfectly visible where all the body parts are. The discoball rotates slowly, refracting colours across Enjolras’s skin as he drapes himself like a cat over the huge sofa and it’s not until he trails his eyes up all of that lovely, bare skin that Grantaire realises that Enjolras is watching him look. He blushes, and hopes that the lights are low enough that Enjolras can’t see it.

“Alright, places. Three, two, one, action.” Jehan and Courfeyrac are on the cameras for now, both of which are stationary and angled to show off the length of Enjolras’s torso, and Marius is holding the mic. The music turns a little louder; Enjolras closes his eyes. Combeferre walks into shot, wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He could have been any one of London’s thousands of graduate students.

“Enjolras. Enjolras?” He leans over the back of the sofa and taps Enjolras on the shoulder.

“Hmmm?” Enjolras opens his eyes, and Grantaire wants to know how someone can make the action of _opening their eyes_ sexy. “Ferre?”

“Were you asleep? Are you drunk? Do you need me to drive you home?” Combeferre picks a shirt up off the sofa arm, and this might be the first time that Grantaire has seen porn attempt to make one of the actors put clothes _on_.

“No, I’m fine,” says Enjolras, stretching, if stretching means bucking his hips up and curving his back into an arc, flashing his abs at the camera.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not drunk?” says Combeferre, frowning. “You’re topless.”

“It’s just hot in here. Do you want to check?” Enjolras crooks a finger at Combeferre, and Combeferre smiles at him.

“Do you _want_ me to check?” His tone is teasing and natural and sounds like flirty banter, and if Grantaire had not seen the script with his own eyes about ten minutes ago, he wouldn’t have been able to tell that this whole thing is scripted. Combeferre’s already leaning down over the back of the sofa to meet Enjolras, who tips his head up in return. They kiss, except kiss is too tame of a word for it. Their mouths open and Combeferre rolls his tongue in, sliding it against Enjolras’s; Combeferre curls his fingers into Enjolras’s hair and Enjolras pulls his lower lip between his teeth, running his tongue over it.

“Well?” The word is low, husky, whispered against Combeferre’s jaw. “Any taste of alcohol on me?”

“Guess not. You’re sober. Which means I get to ask if you want to have sex. Lucky me. Sex?” Combeferre chases up his answer with another searing kiss, leaning right over the sofa to do so. His shirt rides up as it pulls against the back of the sofa, exposing a slim hip.

Enjolras bites Combeferre’s lip lightly. “Yes.”

Combeferre rolls over the top of the sofa and somehow manages to make it sexy, and not like a meatsack slamming into Enjolras’s legs. A light shimmer of glitter poofs up and settles lightly over them. Though, to be fair, Enjolras parts his legs smoothly to make way and hooks them over Combeferre’s hips like they’ve practiced this. Grantaire suspects they have. Watching someone he would maybe like a second date with grind up against someone else is surprisingly not as much of a turn off as he would have thought.

“Aaaand, cut,” says Jehan, and Grantaire nearly protests before remembering that this is not a porn video. Yet. “Looks perfect. Enjolras, you remembered what I said hands on camera-side, good. Courfeyrac?”

“Good on my end too. There’s a moment where you can see Enjolras’s winded face when Ferre lands on him, but we can cut that bit from your angle if that works for you.” Courfeyrac gives them a thumbs-up, and Jehan nods.

“Alright then, prep for the sex.”

This, this is the bit that Grantaire knows nothing about. Hell, before just now, he’d never given any thought to the fact that there would be breaks in the filming of porn. (He’s just never really considered the logistics of how the men all seem to last an unreasonably long amount of time before ejaculation.) So really, he’s not mentally prepared for when Combeferre pulls his dick out of the jeans, and starts stroking himself, occasionally shaking off the stray bit of glitter.

He’s even less prepared for when Jehan tosses some lube and a towel at Enjolras. “Thanks,” says Enjolras, peeling the trousers off, oh, there isn’t any underwear under there, and now all Grantaire can think about is how he sat next to Enjolras for over half an hour, literally inches apart, and he had no underwear on all that time. And then thoughts of going commando fly out of Grantaire’s brain, because that’s entirely tame compared to how Enjolras just slathers lube over his fingers and starts easing one into his arse.

This shouldn’t be sexy, because it’s not meant to be; neither of them are performing right now, the cameras aren’t on, and they aren’t dirty talking. On the other hand, Grantaire is watching Enjolras, barely ten feet away from him, work himself open as he asks Combeferre things like how their quarterly earnings seem to be headed and it’s, it’s… it’s just really nice.

Grantaire has to stop watching before he claws his own face off right there, because ‘it’s really nice’ is not the sort of thing he thinks about things, about anything. And then Enjolras wipes his fingers on the towel and goes, “Ferre, are you done? Come help me stretch?”

“Yeah, almost,” says Combeferre, looking down at his cock, which seems, er, perfectly erect to Grantaire. Combeferre hums, and swings his dick slightly, tapping it against Enjolras’s thigh. “Alright, I’m ready.” Grantaire wonders briefly if tapping one’s penis against something is a particularly good way to measure how hard it is. He’s going to have to try that. Combeferre pulls one of the condoms out of the bowl, rolls it on with absolute professional efficiency, and then puts his cock into Enjolras’s arsehole.

Grantaire is fairly sure he stops breathing.

“Ow,” says Enjolras, and Combeferre pulls a little back out. “That’s fine. Just leave it there for a second.”

And they do.

Combeferre just kneels on the sofa with his dick in Enjolras’s arse, thinking about revenue and advertising or whatever they were just talking about and occasionally pumping his hips back and forth when Enjolras waves a hand as Enjolras lies there with his legs apart, looking like he’s doing breathing exercises or yoga.

It reminds Grantaire disturbingly of a midwife standing in front of a birthing mother and oh okay, that was probably not the best mental image he could have come up with.

“Right, I’m ready,” says Enjolras, easing Combeferre’s cock out and wiping himself down with the towel before shimmying back into the trousers. Combeferre, for his part, takes a moment longer because he has to dispose of the condom and then stuff his erection back into the jeans.

“Cameras ready,” says Jehan, dialling the lighting down again. He’s rearranged the cameras so that there’s just one standing one, on a wheel track that Marius can keep an eye on and position the mic at the same time, another one angled to film between Enjolras’s legs and is carrying one on his shoulder for close-ups.

Combeferre flops back into position on top of Enjolras, and readjusts his junk. Grantaire winces in sympathy, and wonders if maybe skinnies were not a great choice.

“And three, two, one, action.”

Enjolras and Combeferre pick it up as if they had never left off. Grantaire has to sort of tune most of this out right now, not because it’s incredibly weird going on a date with a guy and then watching him grind his hips against someone else (which, it is, a bit) but because he’s starting to get an erection. Instead, he stares determinedly at the top of Combeferre’s hair and it’s out of his peripheral vision that he sees Combeferre kiss and suck his way down Enjolras’s torso and pull his trousers undone with his teeth. It takes less than ten seconds before there’s a dust of glitter all along the muscles of Enjolras’s thigh, which somehow makes everything five times more sexy.

Grantaire figures that practice makes perfect, but it’s still impressive when Combeferre slips Enjolras’s flaccid penis into his mouth, slides two fingers into his arse with one hand and grabs a condom with the other, shucking his trousers so quickly that his cock pops out of the skinny jeans and bounces a few times, and then rolls the condom on with his free hand. His mouth is like magic (or an oven, and Grantaire doesn’t know why his brain is making especially inappropriate comparisons today), because Enjolras’s cock goes in soft and comes out hard.

“I want to put my cock up your tight arse,” says Combeferre. For most other people, this would have been a flirty line, a dirty line. Instead, Combeferre sounds sincere, like he’s asking a nice girl to prom and not fingering his best friend.

“Nnnrgh,” says Enjolras, clenching his arsehole around Combeferre’s fingers. Jehan moves in for a different angle and he blocks most of Grantaire’s view, but he can still see Enjolras’s _face_ , thrown back, mouth parted as he pants.

“Is that a yes? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Combeferre says. This is to be the next video in their Consent Is Sexy series, which is the only reason Grantaire doesn’t think that Combeferre is being a _fucking tease_ right now.

Enjolras laughs breathlessly. “Yes, it’s a yes. I want your cock in me.” With one last swirl of his tongue around the head of Enjolras’s cock, Combeferre moves upwards, and from here, Grantaire can see Jehan move exactly in time with him. Positioning himself at Enjolras’s arse, Combeferre gasps as Enjolras bucks his hips forward, and slides himself down the length of Combeferre’s cock. Combeferre rocks backwards until Enjolras is straddling his lap, using the back of the sofa to give himself leverage as he rides Combeferre.

“Is this good for you?” Combeferre wraps his arms around Enjolras’s back, fingers digging deep into his pale flesh and groans. It’s only a few minutes before Grantaire can feel phantom aches in his thighs from how fast Enjolras is going, and his brain shorts out as it tries to speculate on Enjolras’s stamina.

“I want you deeper,” says Enjolras, grinding his arse down as if Combeferre’s cock is not enough. “I want to feel you for days. I want to remember this when I have lectures tomorrow morning.” Oh, right – they’re pretending to be university students. Grantaire had almost forgotten as he tries to distract himself from how much he wants to crawl over there and lick the glitter off Enjolras’s cock.

“On all fours?” Combeferre suggests, having the absolute temerity to look uncertain, as if they haven’t fucked each other every which way to Sunday before.

“I haven’t tried that before,” says Enjolras, batting his eyelashes, the huge bloody liar, and he turns around and waves his arse in the air.

It’s Combeferre’s turn to work now; he thrusts his hips forwards. “Enjolras? Too hard?”

“No, it was good. You can go harder,” purrs Enjolras, head towards the camera as he lets his face go slack. Combeferre’s slamming forward hard enough to make Enjolras’s entire body jolt a little each time, and Grantaire admires how sturdy the sofa seems to be. (Porn productions are often cheap, and he needs _something_ to take his mind off how he can’t sneak a hand inside his trousers right now.)

“Enjolras, I’m close,” says Combeferre eventually, tension showing in the beautiful, tight lines of his neck, even as he keeps thrusting. “I want you to come too. I want it to be good for you.”

Enjolras moans. “It is. It’s so good, Ferre, don’t worry. Right there, fuck, right there.” He bows his head, spare hand propping himself up shakily as he reaches underneath him for his neglected dick, coaxing it back into action.

“Enjolras,” whispers Combeferre, hot and wet into his ear, “I’m gonna come now.”

“Aaaand, cut,” says Jehan. Grantaire presses the thick fabric of his hoodie over his face, desperately crosses his legs and makes a noise like a strangled cat.


	4. Chapter 4

“Five minute break,” says Jehan throwing a sparkly purple buttplug at Enjolras’s head, and Combeferre peels off the condom and waddles ungainly off towards the shower rooms to go and finish himself off.

“Nnnrgh,” says Grantaire as he watches Enjolras push the buttplug into himself and then get up off the sofa. Jehan drapes a red dressing gown over him, and he could pass for decent by the time he makes his way over to Grantaire.

“Sparkly,” says Grantaire, hastily dropping the hoodie back into his lap.

Enjolras sighs, and shakes his hair. A small cloud of glitter poofs out of it, like a sneezing fairy. “So much glitter, everywhere,” he says.

“Erm,” says Grantaire, and at least making strained noises is one step above speculating in which places Enjolras currently has glitter.

“It’s all specially made and non-harming to the body, of course,” reassures Enjolras, because yes, of course _that_ was what Grantaire was worried about. “Anyhow. Erm. What do you think?”

And now Grantaire is starting to pull himself out of his horny, lustful haze of sex thoughts, he can recognise that as worry colouring Enjolras’s tone. “Really hot,” says Grantaire. “And glittery. I hope you’re not expecting this dating thing to go slowly. I mean, I will absolutely respect you if you do, I’m not a complete arsehole, but I rather _hope_ that you’re not.”

“Oh, good,” says Enjolras, visibly relieved. “Do you need to use the bathrooms?”

“Oh fuck, yes please,” says Grantaire, because contrary to what normally happens, he is still just as hard as when they were filming. Maybe it’s because Enjolras is sitting right next to him, covered in sweat and glitter and with a _sparkly purple buttplug_ up his arse.

Enjolras leads the way. “Given the amount we need it, we converted one of the bedrooms into a shower room, which also gives us another set to use. The actual toilets are just beyond that, whichever you need.” He opens the door for Grantaire, and Grantaire walks through just in time to see a lovely, steamy, open shower space, and Combeferre in the middle, one hand firmly around the base of his cock and the other stroking himself.

“Hi,” says Grantaire. “Nice err – good, ah – I think maybe I’ll just wait a couple of minutes?”

~

Grantaire takes the quickie version of a cold shower, which is to strip off his jeans and pants and socks and blast his crotch with a horrific amount of cold water, and then pull his clothes back on. Thankfully, no one expects _him_ to be comfortable with group nudity (at least, not yet) and so he’s allowed to suffer the indignity alone as he huddles over his incredibly cold crotch and breathes very heavily through his mouth for a few moments.

When he gets back into the studio, Enjolras and Jehan are huddled over one of the cameras, reviewing the footage, and Marius is liberally reapplying glitter. “Since when have you been working here?” asks Grantaire, coming up behind him.

Marius smiles sheepishly. “About two months? The BBC contract ended, and I didn’t get picked up for anything new yet. I mentioned to Courfeyrac that I was between contracts, and he said I could help out here, they were looking for more professional camerawork, and one thing led to another, and now it’s been two months. Don’t tell Eponine?”

“Eponine won’t care,” says Grantaire, raising an eyebrow. “I told her Enjolras is a porn star.”

Marius flushes. “It’s just – I didn’t tell her when it happened and now it’s awkward.”

“She’s going to find out at some point,” says Grantaire with a snort, “and the longer you keep not telling her, the bigger the chance you’re going to end up dead.” He claps Marius on the back, and wanders back to his seat.

“All right, I think we’re all set for take two,” says Jehan. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Take two?” asks Grantaire, who hadn’t really considered that porn was shot in actual takes. “What – _whoa_.” He stares as Combeferre sheds his dressing gown (white, to go with Enjolras’s red and Courfeyrac’s blue and it’s like between them they are one very patriotic strip act) because Combeferre has an erection.

“Does he have _no_ refractory period?” asks Grantaire, somewhere between awe and jealousy.

“Hmm? Oh, he hasn’t actually ejaculated yet,” says Jehan, turning around and bestowing a crinkly smile on Grantaire. “If you orgasm without coming, you can keep the erection going for another round.”

“ _Teach me_ ,” says Grantaire fervently.

Jehan laughs, and finetunes his camera settings. “I think Enjolras would take exception to that. He’s been not-talking about you since Wednesday.”

“Not-talking?”

“We don’t really manage to keep secrets from each other,” says Jehan, waving his hand around to indicate them all and Grantaire hums, stowing that away for further thought. “Are we ready? Lights? Three, two, one, action.”

They’re reshooting the same thing as before, except that all the cameras are at different angles, all the better to get more shots that don’t have accidental cameras in the background. Grantaire had never given much merit to the idea that porn actors were indeed _actors_ , but that becomes clear now. He’d assumed that aside from vague directions like ‘move from fingering him to fucking him’, it was whatever occurred to them on the spot. Instead, it feels just as natural as the first time, but they are hitting all of the same cues for movement and line delivery.

Grantaire has a newfound admiration for porn now. Combeferre’s been sporting his erection –the _same_ erection, according to Jehan – for almost half an hour before the ejaculation scene and Grantaire’s cock kind of twitches in sympathy (or, more likely, just more arousal because it’s no less hot watching it the second time).

“Enjolras. I’m going to come now.” Combeferre whispers into Enjolras’s ear again.

“Come over me. Please? Please, come over me,” says Enjolras, pulling himself off Combeferre’s cock and rolling over. “I want to see it. May I?”

“Yes,” says Combeferre, watching and gasping as Enjolras teases the condom off his sensitive cock. Enjolras curls his fingers into a loose O shape and Combeferre thrusts his cock through, taking Enjolras’s cock in the hand not preoccupied with keeping him braced on the back of the sofa. He pumps once, twice, Enjolras’s hand tightening around him and he presses his mouth against Enjolras’s neck, muffling his groan. Come splatters jerkily over Enjolras’s abs in thick white streaks until Combeferre slumps over, sides heaving. Grantaire finds himself with his mouth parted, breathing heavily.

He looks exhausted, but his hand is still working over Enjolras’s cock, focussing his attention on the head until Enjolras breathes, “Combeferre.”

“Come on,” says Combeferre encouragingly. “So close.”

Soon, Enjolras lets out a truly obscene moan and comes too, sticky whiteness coating Combeferre’s hand and joining the mess already across his stomach. Combeferre keeps rubbing the tip of one finger across Enjolras’s slit until he starts whimpering, shuddering with overstimulation, and Grantaire has to bite his lip to stop himself from making any sounds and ruining their shoot.

“Oh, enough, please,” says Enjolras, trying to squirm away.

“Sorry,” says Combeferre immediately, dropping his hand and looking contrite. “Was it too much?”

“No,” says Enjolras with a laugh. “Just enough. That was amazing.” He pulls Combeferre in closer for a languid kiss. “You’re going to have to help me clean up though, before anyone else comes back in.”

Combeferre hums. “I can do that.”

There’s about another half minute of kissing, and then Jehan announces, “Aaaand, fade to black. That’s a wrap!”

Combeferre and Enjolras pull apart immediately, each dropping back bonelessly onto the sofa. “You shower first,” says Enjolras, throwing his arms over his head. “Urgh.” He sticks out his tongue and goes cross-eyed looking down at it for glitter, and it feels like it should feel wrong for Grantaire to want to smush him for being so cute (but it doesn’t, so he just chinhands under the pretense that he’s pressing his hoodie to his face).

“No, you first,” says Combeferre, resting his head against the sofa arm and looking like he’s about to drop off at any moment.

“You realise that you have an entire room of showers?” says Grantaire impulsively. “There’s at least eight showers in there. I mean, it’ll be a tight squeeze, but you can probably fit both of you in there at once?”

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing. “Ignore them, Grantaire. They’re just being lazy sods. Seriously though, Enjolras, you’re going to have glitter up your arse for weeks if you don’t get it out.”

“It’s called afterglow,” grumbles Enjolras, but he is rolling off the sofa and helping Combeferre up too in the same movement. They tumble off towards the showers together, and Grantaire adjusts his jeans.

“How do you not have a constant boner?” asks Grantaire of the room in general.

“I’m not attracted to men,” says Marius. “But I still get one sometimes anyway.”

“It’s great for my sex drive,” says Courfeyrac. “Even if Enjolras and Combeferre are basically my brothers and I feel like I’m watching incest.”

“I wear a chastity device unless I’m being filmed,” says Jehan and dear god, maybe this is a bit more intimate a conversation than Grantaire was expecting with people he’s only known for an hour.

“Good advice,” says Grantaire faintly. “I’m just going to use the bathroom again.”

He flees to the toilet – the standalone one this time, because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he walks into the shower room to find Enjolras cleaning glitter out of various orifices, and he reminds himself that offering to help him lick it out is not a valid answer yet. Grantaire sits on the toilet seat in the dark – because he’d forgotten to turn the light on before he went in and now he doesn’t want to go back out in case anyone walks past – and copes with his erection through the time-tested method of breathing a lot and waiting for it to go the fuck away.

He also maybe puts his heads between his knees and has the tiniest of panic attacks.

Grantaire had not expected this. Any of this. He’d thought that maybe they’d meet up and he’d say something horrifically embarrassing (which he did) and Enjolras would leave after an acceptably decent amount of time, or maybe they’d have a coffee and have nothing to talk about and leave it there or, or, or. Or in the back of his head, Grantaire had maybe expected Enjolras not to show up at all.

He doesn’t know how to _deal_ with this, deal with the charming, horrifically good-looking blond who kissed him first and invited him over to meet his friends and his coworkers and to watch him have sex with someone else.

Grantaire glances frantically at his watch, wondering if he’s gone over the socially respectable amount of time a person can stay in the toilet. He has, he really has. Grantaire gets up, wedging his penis back where it’s supposed to be, flushes and washes his hands for good measure and then heads back out.

Everyone’s departed back into the living room, and it’s immediately obvious that they’ve just been talking about him when he walks in, mostly because it goes completely silent apart from Marius, who has his back to Grantaire and doesn’t quite catch on quickly enough. “–if it wasn’t fine–oh, R.” He waves, and Enjolras goes red at having been caught out.

“What wasn’t fine?” asks Grantaire, because he can pretend to be oblivious; that’s the polite thing to do, right? “The shoot? Are you going to have to do it again? How much stamina do you have?” He gives Combeferre an incredulous look.

Combeferre passes a hand over his mouth, which Grantaire suspects is smothering a laugh. “No, not that. Did you have fun?”

Grantaire squints, like it’s a trick question. “Yeeees?”

“See, I said he’d say something if it wasn’t fine,” says Marius staunchly, and Grantaire gives him a grateful squeeze on the shoulder.

“Enjolras was afraid you’d run away,” says Jehan, patting the space beside him.

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Jehan!”

“If I was going to run away, I’d have done it earlier,” says Grantaire honestly, sitting down. As if on cue, everyone suddenly stands up apart from Enjolras, and Grantaire staggers back to his feet, bewildered.

“Not you, dear,” says Jehan, and pushes him back down. He waves as they disappear through the door. “See you next time.”

“Um,” says Grantaire, looking down at the tips of his shoes.

“I’m glad you didn’t run away,” says Enjolras. His hair is damp and pulled back after his shower and it makes him look a little younger. He also looks significantly more uncomfortable now, fully dressed and just sitting on a chair than he does completely naked and halfway to orgasm.

“Well, it’s a pretty big house,” says Grantaire, “I was afraid I’d get lost and end up in an endless corridor of showers and run into more guys masturbating.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “I’m sorry about that. We’re just all so used to it. We lived together in university, and then started the company after that. And you’ve been so receptive and open about it, it feels natural.” He’s frowning now, more easily discernable without the hair covering his face.

“I’m _trying_ to be open and receptive about it,” says Grantaire, “but the sheer amount of boners I seem to be getting may distract me from that.”

Enjolras snorts, and smiles despite himself. “You’re really okay with–this? You wouldn’t be the first, er, hypothetical partner who was uncomfortable with this.”

“Hypothetical partner,” repeats Grantaire, because that’s just _adorable_. “I’m more concerned with the fact that Marius is lying to my best friend about what he does for a living right now.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not saying that I don’t have about a hundred questions, and approximately ninety-eight of them are completely inappropriate and nosy, but we should probably save the talk about serious things and feelings for – later. When you’ve figured out if you actually like me.” He already knows he likes Enjolras. A _lot_. Probably far too much for having only known him for one afternoon.

“Yes, good idea,” says Enjolras, looking relieved. “Erm, we’ve got a meeting after this – well, technically, right now, but I’m _here_ obviously, and not –”

“You’re trying to find a polite way to tell me to bugger off,” says Grantaire, amused. He’d almost considered letting Enjolras carry on.

“Sorry,” says Enjolras, eyebrows scrunching together. “It’d just be boring and incomprehensible to you and I’d like this date to be somewhat, er, memorable.”

“Memorable it was,” says Grantaire, and if Enjolras were aiming to be charming his pants off, Grantaire would absolutely be shedding clothes right now.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” says Enjolras, standing up, and Grantaire makes a face at his back because how is anyone this chivalrous anymore? He follows Enjolras out past the ghastly fountain (and laughs, again, because it’s just as ridiculous the second time) and makes for the door when Enjolras catches him by the wrist and swoops in, and Grantaire thinks that he’s going to sneak a kiss but no, because Enjolras is apparently actually a fucking _saint_ and actually asks: “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire, and kisses him instead. He slides his tongue into Enjolras’s mouth and throws his weight behind it, and Enjolras fists handfuls of his hoodie to tug him closer. Grantaire can almost feel it when Enjolras switches from a professional kiss into a more personal one, relaxing into Grantaire and bumping their noses together. “Mmm,” says Grantaire when he finally pulls back. “Oh, wow, there really is glitter everywhere.” He spits it out like a sneezing cat, and scrunches his nose.

“A work hazard, I’m afraid,” Enjolras says, breath close enough to warm Grantaire’s cheek.

Grantaire gropes for the door handle. “You, I’m calling again,” he says, and pulls his beanie back on, sauntering out of the door and not looking back so that Enjolras can’t see his uncontrollable grin.


	5. Chapter 5

Date two has to be postponed. Bossuet and Musichetta come back armed with a pile of feedback, much of it positive, but there are also a few things that Grantaire needs to work on before the release date and so he disappears into a world that consists only of his computer, copious amounts of internet and vodka, and long rambling phone calls and chats with Eponine, who only understands half of the technical jargon but all of his pain. Grantaire sends an apologetic text and an abundance of sad emotes to Enjolras.

Two weeks later, the day after the app launch, Grantaire emerges from a thirty hour long coding binge wherein he couldn’t stop because that would mean breaking his stride, and pours himself into the shower. When he emerges, he discovers that Eponine has broken into his apartment (despite the fact that she has the spare key) and is having a cup of tea and Grantaire’s chocolate digestives with Courfeyrac.

“...Uh,” says Grantaire, because as far as he was aware, he was _alone_ in his _own apartment_ , which means certain luxuries like walking out of the bathroom naked with his towel around his hair and not his hips.

“Hi again,” says Courfeyrac, waving.

“Bossuet says that the latest patch is working fine, I’ve been obssessively refreshing our stat counter and Courfeyrac’s inviting us to a party over at his tonight,” says Eponine. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“Piss off,” says Grantaire, for lack of anything better to say. He defiantly stands in the middle of his living room, towel still around his hair, brain still whirring over code. “When’s tonight?”

Eponine, because she’s known Grantaire for long enough to understand what he means, “You’ve got about eight hours to fit in some sleep. And maybe also consider shaving. Your half-grown scrubby beard look is not attractive.”

“Who cares?” grumbles Grantaire, nabbing some of the biscuits before Eponine scarfs them all.

“Well, pretty boy Enjolras might,” says Eponine, watching him drop biscuit crumbs into his chest hair with a wrinkled nose.

“Oh.” Grantaire tugs at his beard. “Well it hides the rest of my face, which is always an improvement.”

“R.” Eponine’s tone brooks that she is not in the mood for his bullshit, be it tomfoolery or his crashing self-esteem.

“Well, it’s been a while. He’s probably realised that I’m a sarcastic jerk and not half as good-looking as the people he gets to fuck on a regular basis, and, and, that is why I don’t need to shave.”

Eponine, who is used to such incoherent moods, breaks open a packet of caramel-chocolate digestives, and silently offers him one with a scowl.

“Stop that, I’m not being irrational,” says Grantaire, but takes one anyway.

“If Enjolras didn’t think think you were worth his time, he wouldn’t have met you the first time,” says Courfeyrac, who looks slightly confused but determined nevertheless. “Trust me, Enjolras doesn’t bother much with dating.”

“What did you say to him to get him to agree in the first place?” mutters Grantaire, giving Eponine a half-hearted glare. He knows that she’s not above bribing people to take him out, at least the first time.

Eponine offers him another biscuit. “I told him you were a gorgeous, athletic graphic designer who liked men and blonds and had a very strong sense of right and wrong. And also that you were hung like a horse.”

Grantaire groans.

“Also, you haven’t been answering your phone, so he asked me if you were all right. I think it can be safely assumed that he’d like to see you again.”

Grantaire pauses to chew thoughtfully, and then nods. “All right. Sleep first though.” And wanders back through to his bedroom to pass out.

It’s not until Grantaire wakes up to three consecutive alarms somewhere around six pm that it really registers, and Eponine and Courfeyrac really did break into his house to steal his food and invite him to a party as he stood in front of them, naked and still damp and having a crisis of confidence.

Grantaire groans, and curses his brain for not caring about social etiquette when it’s a little tired, and trundles out of bed to get ready. It’s not until he’s dressed that he realises he has no idea where this party is, but thankfully there’s an unread message from Eponine that tells him the address. He wonders briefly if he should text Enjolras – warn him so that he can _not_ be there for example. Eventually, he sends what he hopes is a casual sounding ‘Hey, Courfeyrac invited me to a party you guys are having tonight, and work is finally less crushingly busy, yay! See you there?’

On the bus ride over, Grantaire takes the time to finally clear out his phone messages and inbox. He winces when he sees three missed calls from Enjolras and half a dozen from Eponine.

“What the fuck?” says Grantaire out loud when he gets off the bus, because whilst he’d realised that the address was in Angel, he hadn’t realised that it’d be the posh half of Angel. He tromps off in the right direction, and ends up standing outside some disgustingly pretty semi-detatched house in a cul-de-sac that has a tiny little excuse of a front garden with a gate and actual rose bushes growing.

He rings the doorbell anyway, and it swings open to reveal Jehan in an enormously fluffy jumper that goes down past his knees. Grantaire wants to roll around in it like a kitten. “There you are,” he says cheerfully, waving Grantaire in. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

“You have?” asks Grantaire, who doesn’t deal well with pressure, as evidenced by the fact that he’s only eaten every other day for the last fortnight. It’s apparently the kind of house where everyone takes their shoes off at the door, and Grantaire wriggles his mismatched socks before padding down the carpet after Jehan.

The wistful watercolours on the wall catch Grantaire’s eye, but before he has a chance to ask about them, Jehan’s shepherding Grantaire through the door to the next room and Grantaire’s senses are all overloaded as a whole bunch of people literally jump out at him and yell, “SURPRISEEEEE!”

At least six different party poppers explode and fling strands of confetti at him and someone has party string and is using it like pepper spray.

“Argh!” says Grantaire, which seems an appropriate response when blinded by coloured foamy strings, and backs up against the door. After clawing his way out of the silly string before it dries, Grantaire finally manages to look around. “What the fuck,” he says, seeing not only Eponine and Courfeyrac and Jehan and _Enjolras_ and Combeferre and Marius, but also Cosette, Bossuet, Musichetta, Joly, Bahorel, Feuilly and Gavroche. “Do you all know each other?” He’s so, so confused. (But not so confused that he doesn’t confiscate the silly string from Gavroche who has the gall to not even look sorry.)

“We do now,” says Musichetta, sweeping Grantaire up and along and pulling coloured bits of paper out of his hair. “Half a million downloads on the first day, congratulations to us, R.”

“What?” Grantaire blinks. “No _way_.”

“Our taxes are going to a right bitch,” says Eponine cheerfully, pressing a drink into his hands.

“Why am I the only one that got a surprise party?” grumbles Grantaire, but only slightly because he’s managed to catch Enjolras’s eye. He takes a very small sip of it because he knows Eponine – her idea of a shot is about the size of a mug, and edges toward Enjolras.

“Because everyone else has been answering their phones,” says Eponine sweetly, and hands him off to Courfeyrac.

“So, when you said _you_ were having a party...” says Grantaire.

“Eponine said that she wanted to have a party, but didn’t have a place big enough, so Marius invited everyone round to our place instead,” says Courfeyrac.

“Does Marius even live here?” Grantaire had been sure that he had a place somewhere near Russell Square.

“No, Marius just assumes that everyone is as generous as he is.” Courfeyrac grins, and hands Grantaire a slice of immensely dense chocolate cake.

“That sounds like him.” Grantaire’s stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t had anything but those chocolate biscuits for the last two days, and digs in.

“Well, not everyone,” says Marius, passing by as he tries to walk towards Cosette without looking like he’s mainlining for her, “but I knew that Jehan would be.”

Grantaire laughs. “Ooh, burn!” He leaves Courfeyrac to tussle with Marius, and finally, finally manages to steer himself around enough people to flop down on one of the chairs; he is exhausted and he’s only been here for five minutes. “Hey.”

“Congratulations,” says Enjolras.

“Thanks,” says Grantaire, yawning because his body insists that it feels like morning despite being seven pm. “Sorry about cancelling on you, it’s just been a bit hectic.” 

“No problem,” says Enjolras, “Everyone gets bogged down with work at some point or other. I presume that you got it all worked out though?”

“Well, mostly. There are always a few bugs and glitches that didn’t turn up during testing that I have to do patches for, but the worst of it is over now. Sorry about, er, your calls?”

Enjolras waves his hand. “Eponine explained.”

“Enjolras called her to ask if you were ignoring him,” says Jehan, as he and Courfeyrac gallop past in the worst imitation of a waltz that Grantaire has ever seen.

“Jehan,” sighs Enjolras, looking like he’d very much like to hide.

“Well, I was,” says Grantaire, “but to be fair, I was also ignoring everyone else on the planet and also things like food and sleep and clothes.”

“Clothes?” says Enjolras, lips quirking upwards.

Grantaire shrugs. “I had a shower about four days in and when I got back, I got distracted by a thought I’d had in the shower and forgot to get dressed for the next day and a half. It happens.”

~

When Enjolras had said that he and his friends had porn viewing parties, Grantaire had thought that he’d been exaggerating, at least. But when someone suggests a film about two hours in, there’s the usual discussion over what to watch (a drama? No, no, definitely a comedy. I’ve never seen that one. How have you never seen this?!), they somehow end up watching a feature length fantasy porn movie. “It won an award of some sort,” says Courfeyrac with a shrug.

“Lesbian porn,” says Enjolras with his face screwed up like someone had suggested serving roadkill for lunch.

“What’s wrong with lesbian porn?” demands Cosette, sitting up from her corner, ready for a fight.

“It’s fake,” says Enjolras scornfully. “It’s fake and tacky and it doesn’t represent actual lesbians and it’s made with straight girls who can make more money pretending to get each other off for the benefit of straight men. Also, the plot is ridiculous.”

Cosette narrows her eyes at him, appeased. “Hmmm.”

“The plot is ridiculous,” repeats Grantaire as the screen pans onto what Grantaire presumes is a shot of a girl riding a unicorn, except most of the view is filled with her incredibly large breasts, so that’s just his best guess. “That’s your complaint?”

“Just because it’s porn doesn’t mean that it should lose all cinematic merit,” says Jehan, who produces the most enormous bowl of popcorn. “Only if it's _bad_ porn.”

“You’re not allowed to watch this,” Bahorel says to Gavroche, who’s been sneaking gulps of different alcohol out of everyone’s cups and is now as drunk as a skunk.

“I’ve seen worse,” pouts Gavroche, but his eyelids are drooping anyway, and Eponine carries him into one of the bedrooms.

The plot _is_ ridiculous. The fair maiden princess on a unicorn is apparently cursed to never experience orgasm again, and rides on to find an equally fair warrior maiden, whose armour looks like it was made out of a single tin can, to save her. Grantaire holds up a pair of spoons over his nipples. “Yes, that will definitely hold me up,” he says to the sound of laughter.

Everyone hoots when the princess ‘falls off’ the unicorn and motorboats the warrior maiden’s ample bosom. Combeferre complains about how much suspension of disbelief is required to think that both the girls have fake nails with square french manicures and Eponine counters it with a graphic description of how nails like that would probably just shred up her vagina and relishes the winces. All of the porn actors take turns yelling out ‘FAKED!’  and making graphic moans whenever someone has an orgasm on screen.

The warrior maiden fights the incredibly hot witch, ties her up and punishes her with her whip (because of _course_ she’s armed with a whip), and takes the now-repentant witch home to the fair maiden as a squirming, bound trophy.

In the meanwhile, the unicorn has magically turned into a man dressed like a unicorn, and is fucking the princess with the horn strapped to the top of this head; _everyone_ cringes at that. “Ow,” says Eponine disbelievingly. “That thing is _sharp_.”

“What’s going on?” Joly asks, although to be fair, he had come straight from his shift at the hospital, dropped off in a corner in a ball of exhaustion about half an hour into the party and has only just woken back up again.

“Fucking unicorns,” says Bossuet with a grin.

Joly looks at the screen with dazed eyes. “I’d ride him,” he says sleepily, and cushions his head back on Musichetta’s thigh.

The finale features a foursome with the three girls and the unicorn. “For the trouble you have caused me, you will personally ensure that I come. Several times!” declares the princess as she grinds down onto the witch’s pierced tongue. At the very end, the shot pans out and the unicorn has turned back into an actual horse-with-a-CG-horn lying in the midst of the women and bodily fluids.

“Ewwww,” everyone screeches, throwing the remains of the popcorn at the screen.

“The poor horse,” laments Grantaire, laughing uncontrollably into Enjolras’s shoulder.

Enjolras, for his part, looks scandalised. “I’m sure that’s an infringement on animal rights somehow.”

“You realise that they didn’t actually have sex on top of a horse?” says Eponine. “You do realise that, right?” ”

“That was truly dire,” says Courfeyrac, stretching himself out. “How on earth they won a porn award for this, I’ll never know.”

With an emphatic thump on the arm of the sofa, Enjolras scowls. “That’s the state of the porn industry. It just goes to show how porn can be –”

“It won an award for special effects,” says Combeferre placatingly. “Because it’s a fantasy feature. Not that you’re wrong about the industry of course, Enjolras, but you’re preaching to the choir here. We’ve just got to show everyone that better quality porn exists and it’s feasible to produce and that it’s better.”

“I don’t know about you, but I need something to scrub all of that out of my head,” says Marius with a shudder.

Eponine's eyes light up, and Grantaire knows that whatever is coming out of her mouth is a bad, bad idea. “Let's watch something done by you lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unicorn-themed costume bondage is a real thing, and some of it [exists here](http://exterface.com/unicorn/). On the other hand, the truly dire plot I used for the porno is not, as far as I know, a real one. But porn plots often really are that bad.
> 
> There is also some commentary on lesbian porn by lesbians that I stole [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJvYprLDcRs).
> 
> These are [chocolate digestives](http://img.tesco.com/Groceries/pi/019%5C5000168002019%5COutofPack/Lidoff_225x225.jpg), and if I were on death row, I would probably ask for some of the caramel chocolate ones for my last meal.


	6. Chapter 6

“If you wanted to see me naked, you could have just asked,” calls Courfeyrac.

Feuilly smacks him over the head. “That’s for Jehan, because he wouldn’t do it himself. Who’s to say it’s _you_ she wants to see naked?”

“I wouldn’t mind just seeing you _all_ naked,” says Cosette, tossing her hair as everyone laughs. “Just saying.” (Somewhere behind her, Marius makes a truly embarrassing tragic face of pining.)

“We should watch the one where Enjolras is a Royal Guard,” says Eponine with a small, feline smile, and _why_ does everyone seem to know about that? Grantaire feels his blush crawl up his neck.

“Did he have the hat?” asks Bossuet.

Enjolras stifles a laugh. “I did. It was incredibly cumbersome.”

“Any reason why, or are we just feeling patriotic today?” asks Cosette.

Courfeyrac grins. “Grantaire likes it.”

“Grantaire has questionable taste though,” says Bossuet, and Grantaire could kiss him right now.

Enjolras sits up, and his full mouth is gorgeous even when he frowns. “Are you calling me questionable taste?”

Since he’s been (subtly) leaning into him a bit, Grantaire slides into the little warm patch Enjolras leaves behind. “We can watch it if you want.”

Eponine narrows her eyes, but she’s the one who suggested it in the first place so she can’t exactly back out of it now. “Really?” Courfeyrac tilts his head at him like he thinks Grantaire is calling their bluff, but Grantaire actually isn’t so he shrugs and smiles.

“Yeah, really.”

“Well now I want to see it, after all the hype,” says Musichetta with a throaty laugh, jokingly giving Enjolras a very long look up and down, as if considering adding him to her collection of boys.

Jehan flicks through their DVD collection – it’s a huge collection, and at least two-thirds of it is porn – and holds it up. “You’re sure?” he says dubiously.

“Why not?” says Enjolras, “I happen to know first-hand that it’s much better than that tripe we just watched.”

And so they do.

Enjolras in a Royal Guard uniform has the potential to be stunning. Unfortunately, Grantaire doesn’t think that there’s a person in the world who can actually pull off that busby hat, and so Enjolras just looks a little ridiculous in the beginning. Thankfully, the hat comes off in the first few minutes, and Enjolras with slightly sweaty hat hair? Is _very_ hot.

“I know the lot of you are probably used to seeing your friends strip down in front of you, that being your job and all, but this is rather more than I want to see of you given we only met today. No offense,” says Bahorel with a chuckle, shaking Enjolras’s hand and then disappearing away to check on Gavroche.

“Is this weird for _you?_ ” asks Grantaire in a low voice, leaning in so that he doesn’t interrupt everyone else as they make lewd suggestions about Enjolras’s fluffy hat.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “ _Now_ you ask? Don’t worry, I watch the things we shoot all the time.”

There’s something in his factual tone that makes Grantaire squint at him consideringly. “But you don’t watch them for pleasure, do you? I bet you do it for, for feedback and constructive criticism, don’t you? For how to better your porn.”

“Well.” Enjolras shrugs with a small smile, and Grantaire can’t help but mirror it.

On screen, Enjolras has his pants off, his gloves inexplicably still on and he undoes his buttons one at a time, leaving the red top draped over him as he strokes himself with the other hand. “This is really hot,” says Grantaire, his eyes flicking over to the tv and then back to the real thing, who is watching him, thoroughly amused. “There’s two of you, and that can only be a good thing. Can I kiss you?”

“I suppose,” says Enjolras, and wets his lips.

Grantaire shuffles closer and tilts his head, tongue flicking out to trail over Enjolras’s bottom lip before pulling it into his mouth and lightly nibbling on it. Enjolras groans into him, palms pressing hot against Grantaire’s t-shirt to balance himself. Somewhere in the background, someone wolf-whistles, and Musichetta is audibly making notes, and Grantaire grins hard against Enjolras’s mouth. Enjolras snorts, and kisses the smirk off his face.

They shift, minutely, and slowly slide into the dip in the centre of the sofa; Enjolras somehow ends up half on Grantaire’s lap, which means that Grantaire can _watch_ Enjolras on the TV with his lips around a bright red dildo, cheeks hollowed as he sucks, and then blink and feel Enjolras’s blond eyelashes brush against his own as he mouths down Grantaire’s jaw (and next time, maybe he’ll leave some stubble).

Grantaire teases his fingers along the hem of his shirt, occasionally brushing a slip of warm skin with his fingertips, and Enjolras hums. “What do you want me to do?” asks Grantaire, his breath hot and humid against Enjolras’s ear.

“I thought you already knew what I like,” says Enjolras, his eyes flashing to the screen. More than anything, he seems a little smug about the effect _two_ Enjolrases is having on Grantaire.

Grantaire huffs. “That’s porn, it’s not real.”

“It’s real for me,” says Enjolras, with a slight frown, and Grantaire hastily leans in to lick it away.

“No way,” he says with a breathless laugh. “You show off your sex preferences in porn videos for the world to see?”

“There’s no point convincing people to create more realistic porn if you’re not going make it realistically yourself,” says Enjolras patiently as if Grantaire’s being the unreasonable one. “Are you really trying to talk about this _right now_?” He emphasises his point by bouncing a little, and Grantaire groans as his erection rubs against Enjolras’s thigh.

“Can I–?” Grantaire tugs on Enjolras’s shirt, which his hands are mostly under by now, concentrating on the little shivers that Enjolras makes when he traces his fingertips around his waist.

Enjolras, who has most definitely caught onto what Grantaire is doing, presses his fingers down Grantaire’s shoulders and squeezes his biceps lightly; Grantaire’s glad that _some_ things about him are remotely attractive. “Be my guest.”

When Grantaire yanks Enjolras’s shirt off, his hair flies everywhere and Grantaire combs his fingers through it. “I bet you look amazing with bedhead,” he says stupidly.

"Stick around and you'll probably find out at some point," says Enjolras, pulling Grantaire's hands out of his hair and shaking his head. His hair falls naturally back into place and Grantaire _hates him_ the bastard; does he know how much effort it takes for Grantaire to look like he hasn't just climbed backwards out of a bush? He runs his knuckles down Enjolras's bare back and kisses his open mouth, relishing it as Enjolras groans and arches forward into him.

"What are you doing?" asks Eponine incredulously, and Grantaire emerges from where he was busy coaxing Enjolras's tongue out of his mouth to look over.

"The bit with Big Ben?" says Enjolras, who isn't facing the tv.

"Yep." Big Ben is one of the reasons Grantaire loves this particular video.

Enjolras is sitting propped up on thick cushions facing the camera, his legs spread so that everyone has the perfect view of his cock and arsehole. "In case you were all wondering how patriotic I am," he says with an entirely serious expression, and slides an enormous Big-Ben-shaped dildo into his arse. "I’m _very_ patriotic."

Grantaire can't help but slide his fingers down the curve of Enjolras's plump backside – and he does appreciate that such a skinny thing has a good handful of arse for him to grab – and tease down his crack at the same time as on-screen Enjolras fills himself up.

"Mmm," says Enjolras, grinding his arse down on Grantaire's hand.

"Oh my god, what are you _doing_?" repeats Eponine. She finally, finally looks back over at her shoulder to give the real Enjolras the same horrified squint and registers what they've been doing behind her back. "Gran _taire_." She seems to be pouting.

"What," says Grantaire, voice muffled because he's slightly distracted by Enjolras's collarbone and may be licking them all the way up to his shoulder. "You didn't think that I was just going to sit on the sofa and squirm whilst watching the hot porn star beside me lie back and think of England when I could attempt to get my hands on his arse instead?"

“It is a nice arse,” says Cosette appreciatively, looking over from where she’s managed to get Marius blushing horrifically and trying to put his hands over her eyes.

“I don’t know what you see in him, Enjolras,” laments Eponine.

Enjolras pulls away from Grantaire’s mouth with a wet sound. “Myself. I see myself in him, very deep in him,” he says. “Are the lot of you heathens trying to have a conversation when I am baring my soul to you?”

“Baring your arse, more like,” says Courfeyrac from his spot on the floor where he’s curled around Jehan. “We have a spare bedroom or three if you’d like to get yourselves a room.”

Grantaire exchanges an amused look with Enjolras. “No, we’re fine here thanks,” says Enjolras, leaning on Grantaire until he flops over on the sofa. He goes for the neck, leaving what will be truly massive hickeys come tomorrow, lifts his hips up and gets his jeans off before grinding down on Grantaire’s hips.

“Fucking multitasking,” Grantaire groans, because he can pretty much only think of one thing to do and then do it before moving onto the next, and at the moment, this involves massaging the thin cottony fabric separating his fingertips and Enjolras’s arse.

“Practice,” says Enjolras carelessly, dotting more lovebites on Grantaire’s neck and then pulling back to survey his work critically. “I’ll teach you.”

“Are you _actually_ going to have sex in our living room?” complains Courfeyrac loudly. “With everyone watching?”

“Everyone’s already watching him have sex in your living room,” points out Grantaire. “That’s the whole point.”

“I think it’s sweet,” says Jehan who is actually watching them.

Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet all stand up at the same time in a tangle of limbs. “We’ll take that spare bedroom you offered, Courfeyrac,” says Musichetta. “I don’t see the point of watching good porn if I can just get laid myself.”

Courfeyrac looks like he’s starting to regret having mentioned how many spare rooms they had, and he doesn’t know Musichetta well enough to work out how to withdraw his offer without offending her. (Musichetta is, of course, counting on this confusion and the three of them whisk themselves out of the room before Courfeyrac can figure it out.)

Enjolras sneaks a hand between them, and pulls down Grantaire’s zipper. Marius gets up startlingly quickly. “I think I, er. I’ve got to go?” He doesn’t even manage to sound certain about that one, and tumbles out of the room with Cosette, who pouts.

“No marks,” says Combeferre, who’s suddenly looming over them.

Grantaire sees his head appear over Enjolras’s shoulder, and blinks up at him. It’s scary enough to dampen his arousal, but Enjolras is stealthily running a finger up and down his cock, so his body disagrees. “Whu–”

“No marks,” says Combeferre again. “He’s doing a shoot tomorrow afternoon with Feuilly, and he hates wearing body make-up.”

“And I hate getting it smeared all over me,” adds Feuilly from somewhere Grantaire can’t see.

“Yessir,” says Grantaire meekly.

Combeferre’s head disappears again, and Grantaire listens as he, Feuilly and Eponine leave too, Eponine with a huff.

“I hate you,” says Courfeyrac miserably, his living room deserted apart from himself and Jehan. “I suppose we’d better go too, Jehan.”

Jehan shoots him an incredulous look. “We’re just getting to the good part.”

“Jehan,” says Courfeyrac, looking pained, “No. _No._ ”

Enjolras nibbles on Grantaire’s ear. “I happen to know that this sofa pulls out into a sofabed.”

“Later,” says Grantaire, rutting upwards into Enjolras’s hand. “Do you want to stop?” He’s fairly sure that Courfeyrac and Jehan have left too, but he honestly doesn’t care all too much as Enjolras starts divesting him of his clothing.

Now that everyone’s gone, the silence just amplifies the groans of pleasure coming from Enjolras, enlarged on the 50” TV screen, and Grantaire’s really appreciating Enjolras’s hands on his bare skin.

“Not in the slightest. Do you?” Enjolras pulls back with a frown, and Grantaire reels him back in.

“No, I just wondered if you were playing along, to make the others – well, you know.” Grantaire grimaces. “It’s all right if you don’t actually want to have sex with me. Right now. Under these circumstances. Or, ever.” His hands squeeze Enjolras’s arse, as if he might be asked to give up the right to fondle him any moment now.

“I wasn’t playing along with anything,” says Enjolras with a haughty sniff. “You wanted sexytimes, I wanted sexytimes, sexytimes were initiated.”

Grantaire laughs, half from relief, and crooks one knee so that Enjolras’s legs part for him.

The door suddenly cracks open, and time slows for Grantaire as he watches in mute horror: Gavroche winds in, sleepily rubbing at his eyes. “Where is everyone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, a Big Ben shaped dildo is not a real thing...


	7. Chapter 7

“Is that–” Gavroche blinks at the screen and Grantaire more or less throws Enjolras off him and leaps forward, planting his hands firmly around Gavroche’s eyes. Somewhere in the background, Enjolras hastily pulls his trousers back on. “Oh come on,” says Gavroche, still sounding a bit tipsy. “I’ve seen worse. Besides, I can _hear_ it.”

“I’ll get it.” Enjolras goes for the remote and after a terrifying second in which he manages to turn the volume _up_ as on-screen Enjolras moans, he manages to get it muted.

“I know, but we’re not going to be responsible for your introduction to adult videos,” says Grantaire firmly, and shepherds Gavroche out and back to bed with an apologetic look at Enjolras.

They make a detour to the kitchen, where Grantaire gets Gavroche a glass of water and one painkiller, and Gavroche stops rubbing at his head for long enough to say, “Did I interrupt you two–”

“Yes,” says Grantaire, because he’s never been one to lie, even to children, (only to himself,) “but it’s okay. You gonna be able to get back to sleep?”

“Yeah. He seems cool. You could do worse.”

“Thanks,” says Grantaire, rolling his eyes. (Neither he nor Gavroche mention that Grantaire have, in fact, done much, much worse.)

“Also, he’s fucking _hung–_ ”

“Gav!” Grantaire hustles him back into the spare bedroom, where Eponine is curled up in the opposite corner of the double bed and where the lights are off so Gavroche can’t see the silly little smile he has on his face from having Gavroche’s approval. “Night.”

“Go get ‘im,” says Gavroche, yawning, and crawls back under the covers.

Grantaire stays in the corridor for a moment, collecting himself, and then heads back into the living room. “Hey. Sorry about that,” he says. Enjolras has turned the TV off, pulled out the sofabed and dug out bedding. He’s lounging under the covers and looking as snug and graceful as a cat where Grantaire would have been fidgeting, awkwardly waiting for the other person to return.

“Not your fault,” says Enjolras. “Are you staying the night?” He crooks a finger, and Grantaire is drawn forward, sliding right next to him on the sofa so that their legs press together from hip to ankle with just the duvet between them.

“I didn’t bring stuff to stay the night,” Grantaire says. He’s not twenty-one anymore; he tries not to go to people’s houses and crash out in his clothes on their floor anymore. On the other hand, he doesn’t really fancy going out into the cold night and waiting for a bus home either.

Enjolras slides a hand onto his thigh, and pulls the covers back. Apparently, he’s taken his clothes back on and is just in underwear.

“I guess you’ll just have to keep me warm,” says Grantaire weakly, shucking his shirt and jeans and then stumbling right over them to hit the remaining lights. Enjolras chuckles, and watches with interest as Grantaire slides on in, pressing right up against Enjolras’s chest for a kiss. Enjolras’s hand slides across his waist and Grantaire shivers, glad that it’s dark. He does sport, which keeps his body trim, but it’s hardly anything to look at.

The exhaustion’s starting to sink in now that they’re alone, in the dark, in the silence, and Grantaire suddenly yawns halfway through Enjolras sucking on his tongue. “Am I boring you?” asks Enjolras jokingly.

“Sorry, sorry,” mutters Grantaire, probably red with embarrassment but it’s dark so thankfully no one can tell. “It’s just been a very long… two weeks.” He lazily drags his hand across Enjolras’s chest, gently trailing around his nipple with one finger.

“We can do this some other time,” says Enjolras. “When you’re not falling asleep and we’re not on my best friend’s sofa.” He shifts minutely and, as if to demonstrate, the sofabed creaks ominously.

Grantaire just hums lightly, nuzzling Enjolras’s shoulder, and he has terribly soft skin right there. The warmth seems to close in on him, folding him into its embrace.

~

Grantaire wakes up with someone’s knee in his groin, and a dead weight on his arm. His other arm is freezing, because it’s poking out of the covers and his back _aches_. On the other hand, he has no hangover, which is what usually accompanies waking up feeling like this. He tucks his cold arm back in, and shivers, and tries to ease the other one out from underneath Enjolras. At least, he thinks groggily as he kind of nudges Enjolras’s knee away with his hip, he’s not the only one with octopus-like tendencies in their sleep.

Instead of waking up, Enjolras grumbles softly and rolls over straight back onto Grantaire’s arm, and tries to burrow into the warmth of Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire tucks his chin into his chest to look down. Soft blond hair is fuzzy under his chin, pale skin under that leading down into the covers.

Enjolras is warm and soft in his arms, and Grantaire tries to imagine what it would be like to wake up like this every day. What it would be like to wake up in bed with a gorgeous man who likes skin contact and cuddling, who gives him dead arms and pins and needles; whose hair tries to fluff itself into his nose and who trusts him enough to be dead asleep; who doesn’t hog the covers or kick him out before morning. Grantaire’s imagination is very vivid, but some things are just beyond him.

He strokes a hand through Enjolras’s hair, pushing it back from his face and resigns himself to not getting his arm back, and goes back to sleep.

~

The next time Grantaire wakes up, he sees Jehan’s face looming over him. He screams and throws himself backward, tumbles off the bed and takes the duvet with him. Jehan doesn’t so much as spill a drop of his cup of tea. Enjolras, awakened by the sudden cold of having the duvet whipped off him (and also maybe because of the bloodcurdling yell), groggily sits up.

“Good morning,” says Jehan, who sounds disappointed that they seem to be wearing underwear. He’s glancing between them and the floor like he’s looking for something. “Courfeyrac’s making up some brunch for everyone who stayed. How would you like your eggs, Grantaire?”

“Whu–? Oh, er. Fried, easy over?” Grantaire climbs back onto the bed and sheepishly portions half the duvet back to Enjolras, who instead elects to wrap it around them and curl up at his side, his soft thigh squishing over Grantaire’s fingers.

“Stop looking for condoms, Jehan, there aren’t any,” says Enjolras, yawning.

Jehan blinks.

“No, don’t be ridiculous. We didn’t do it bareback, Jehan,” says Enjolras and Grantaire really wants to know how he’s anticipating all these questions.

Jehan sighs. “I’ll go tell Courf about your eggs,” he says, slinking away.

“Nnnrgh,” says Grantaire, because he hopes no one is expecting him to be eloquent before noon.

They fall silent after that, huddling in their cocoon of duvet and blinking the sleep away. They’re still like that when Jehan comes back, carrying two mugs of tea. (Grantaire would tell him that he doesn’t really drink tea, except Jehan seems like the kind of person who might dump the hot mug over his head for daring to disown tea.) “Courfeyrac would like you to know that he is sorry for participating in last night’s group shennanigans, and also that he’s very glad you didn’t actually have sex all over our living room. Also, food is almost ready.”

Enjolras smiles thinly. “You guilt tripped him into making breakfast, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m very proud of you,” says Enjolras, and Jehan waves as he heads back to the kitchen.

“Your friends are terrifying,” says Grantaire finally.

Enjolras raises one eyebrow. “ _Eponine_.”

Grantaire grimaces. “Point taken.”

Jehan and Courfeyrac have an actual dining room, but there are a lot of them and the living room is cosier, so they end up squashed back in there for brunch, minus Joly who’s gone back to the hospital. Looking around at them, Grantaire realises that his friends and Enjolras’s friends have merged into one amorphous mass, and wonders if that’s the effect of bonding over bad porn.

Bossuet and Musichetta are sharing a plate, Musichetta in charge of the fork, which is fairly normal, but he also notices Marius sharing a plate with Cosette. From the way Eponine is sitting with her back pointedly toward them, he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

“So,” he says quietly enough that Enjolras can pretend to have not heard him if he likes, chasing the last of the sausages around his plate, “you still up for a second date?”

“Sure. Have you got anything in mind?” Enjolras smiles, and holds out his fork to stop Grantaire’s runaway sausage so that he can spear it properly and wow, fuck, Grantaire is so screwed because Enjolras is so _nice_ and one of these days he’s going to do something and Grantaire will burst from how fucking charming it is, so for now he just looks down at his plate and concentrates on his sucessfully forked sausage.

“Have you any opinions on ice-skating?”

Enjolras’s face smooths over completely blank and Grantaire’s stomach drops. He just said something, or did something wrong, and panic starts to well up inside him–

“Did you just invite Enjolras ice-skating?” asks Feuilly, who is on the complete _opposite side of the room_ , what the fuck, and Grantaire stares at him. “Are you aware that Enjolras has as much grace and hand-eye coordination as a tipped cow?”

“What?” Grantaire looks back at Enjolras, whom he has watched give two people handjobs of different speeds and suck a third person off at the same time. “But…” He waves his hand at the wall of DVDs. “But... porn.”

Feuilly stifles a laugh and oh, great, everyone’s listening in now. The tops of Enjolras’s cheekbones are pink and it is _endearing_. Again, Grantaire is so screwed. “That’s different,” says Enjolras plaintively. “Sex comes naturally to me. I like sex. I care about people having good sex. Access to information on good sex is important to people’s health. Who cares about being able to catch a ball or, or, being able to slide on ice? Knowing the difference between a good and bad blow job is an _important life skill_ , shut up Grantaire.” He waves his fork threateningly at Grantaire’s nose.

“Hear, hear,” says Cosette, her laughter a tinkle.

Grantaire presses a hand over Enjolras’s wrist, making him finish up his eggs instead of waving his fork around. “All right, all right. If you don’t want to go ice-skating, just say so.”

“I don’t mind,” says Enjolras, looking as if he’d rather swallow glass shards.

Grantaire blinks. “Seriously – we can go to the Christmas market or something instead?”

Enjolras scowls at him. “I said I don’t mind!”

“But you obviously do. I’m not going to take you somewhere you hate!” Grantaire scowls right back.

“I want to go!” snaps Enjolras.

Grantaire throws his hands up into the air. “Tomorrow, six o’clock at Somerset House?”

“Fine! I hope you’re okay with holding my hand for the entire time!” Enjolras sets his mug down onto the coffee table with more force than necessary, and stomps off to the kitchen to clean his plate.

Grantaire chews the rest of his sausage slowly and looks around at his friends. “What just happened?”

“He likes you,” Combeferre informs him.

~

When Grantaire gets home, he checks the message boards and review pages, relieved to see that no other major problems have turned up in the meantime, nothing that can’t wait until a new patch anyway, and that reviews seem to be generally positive. After half an hour, he stares blankly at his screen, like he always does after a big project has been completely. He’s been so bogged down with work recently, his head crammed full of code, that it feels like he should be working on something.

Instead, he opens up a web browser and drums his fingers on his desk for a moment. He has, he thinks, gained a few more people he needs to get Christmas presents for; the thought is somehow amusing and delightful, instead of stressful.

Grantaire idly browses, bookmarking a few things that seem right, and then when his body is feeling that familiar sort of itch, he opens up a new tab and loads up _Real (Big) Boys_ automatically. He clicks through to the ‘Enjolras’ tag and then pauses as the previews for the videos load up in front of him. He’s watched them all before, most of them multiple times; he can describe what any of them are about from the preview and the little two sentence blurb. He sighs.

‘ _I’ve lost the ability to objectify you as a lust object :(_ ‘ types Grantaire, sending the message off to Enjolras. He’s not going to reply – he has that shoot with Feuilly in a bit and they’re probably preparing for it now, so Grantaire turns to someone else instead.

**R:** _I can't watch porn anymore D:_

**ponine:** _You poor thing. Did you start working on a patch yet?_

**R:** _Aren’t you at least going to ask why? D:_

**ponine:** _no_

**R:** _D:_

**ponine:** _stop making fucking sad faces at me, it’s not going to work_

**R:** _D:_

 **R:** _D:_

 **R:** _D:_

 **R:** _D:_

 **R:** _D:_

 **R:** _D:_

**ponine:** _STOP. STOP IT RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’M BLOCKING YOU._

**R:**... _D:_

 **ponine:**  ...

 **R:** _okay I’m stopping!_

 **ponine:** _Fine, I’ll bite. What is possibly stopping you from watching porn?_

 **R:** _Every time I watch porn I think of Enjolras ;___;_

 **ponine:** _Yes, that’s what happens when you gain an impossibly pretty boything of your own, you tend to think about them._

Grantaire scowls. He’s looking for someone to help him in his wallowing, and Eponine is being far too sensible. He hovers over the keyboard for a moment, trying to decide if he really wants to divert her attention off him.

 **R:** _Did you know that Marius doesn’t work for the BBC anymore?_

 **ponine:** _?!?!_

 **R:** _He’s doing camerawork for Real (Big) Boys._

 **ponine:** _WHAT._

 **R:** _For about two months now._

 **ponine:** _I’m going to kill him. Kill him dead._

Grantaire smiles sadly. Maybe now she’s angry at him, Eponine will stop being heartbroken at him.

~

  
Several hours later, Grantaire gets a reply to his text: ‘ _Sounds like you’re just going to have to settle for the real thing :(_ ‘


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a pair of ice-skates in the back of Grantaire’s wardrobe. He decides to not take them along, because he has been that date who turned up to go bowling and the other party had not only had their own personal bowling shoes, but also a wrist guard and personal _ball_. Instead, he wraps up in layers, and turns up at the side of Somerset House to find Enjolras already there, looking like he’s robbed a coat shop.

“Quiet, you,” says Enjolras with a reluctant grin as Grantaire takes one look at him and bursts out laughing. “It’s cold.”

“You’re going to get really hot really quickly,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras huffs and shrinks into his enormous padded coat, emerging only for a quick peck on the lips before muttering about how cold he is again.

Grantaire only chuckles, and tugs Enjolras toward the skate rental. Once they’ve got the heavy skates on, Enjolras is, genuinely, lumbering around like a child trying to figure out how to walk. “Just – walk normally,” Grantaire says; Enjolras scowls, and continues stomping around.

“Or I could just stand here on the side and watch you?” Enjolras is squinting at the ice-skating rink, all lit up the sparkly blue lights with an odd mix of determination and absolute terror.

Grantaire pouts. “But then I wouldn’t get to hold your hand all evening.” He holds out one gloved hand, and waggles it. To his absolute delight, Enjolras is wearing mitten – mittens! – and tucks his hand into Grantaire’s.

“Let’s get this over with,” says Enjolras as they approach the edge of the ice and he kind of pokes at it with the edge of a skate.

“You’re going to fall over if you do that,” says Grantaire, who steps on easily. “You’ve got to commit.”

“Commitment. I can do commitment.” Enjolras tries to copy Grantaire, and Grantaire feels the grip on his hand tighten until it’s almost painful. He just squeezes back. “Sorry,” mutters Enjolras, concentrating on keeping his feet under him.

Grantaire takes a few slow strokes forward, tugging Enjolras behind him like a mannequin. “You’ve got to relax,” he says soothingly. “It’s like, erm. Swimming? You’ll sink if you’re just stiff as a plank. You’ve got to move your limbs and keep things relaxed, let the water flow around you.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice comes out in gruff little exhalations, like he’s concentrating very hard on just breathing. “It’s ice. It doesn’t flow. That’s the _whole point_.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire stops, turns around, and looks at the deathly pale whiteness of Enjolras’s face. He swings them around to a stop at the edge. “Enjolras, heeeey, hey. Hey.” He pulls his arms around Enjolras’s waist for a quick grope, but is unfortunately thwarted by the _millions of layers_ he’s got going on there, and manages to cop a feel at what honestly feels like a baby bump instead. “Hey,” he says again, and dips his head in for a kiss.

Enjolras’s lips are cold; it’s like the man has absolutely no blood circulation or body fat at all. He massages them warm again, and feels Enjolras start to relax into his arms. That is, of course, when Grantaire grabs him by the hand, and starts skating again.

“Trickery!” hollers Enjolras, laughing, stumbling along with half steps and slides behind him.

“Come ‘ere,” says Grantaire, putting Enjolras’s hands on his hips. “Feel how I’m doing it.”

Enjolras’s fingers are a tight grip on his hips, even from within the mittens. “I’m feeling something, and it isn’t ice-skating,” he says dryly, towed along behind Grantaire.

“I feel you staring at my arse,” yells Grantaire at a guess, causing several other skaters to look their way.

“No, you can’t,” Enjolras yells back defiantly, fingers flexing on his hips.

Grantaire swerves to take them around a group of children and Enjolras lets out the most undignified yelp, pushing forward in a panic and crashing into Grantaire’s back. Grantaire buckles under the weight, sending both spinning out of control and coming to an undignified heap still sliding across the ice.

“Congratulations on your first fall on the ice!” cheers Grantaire, relentlessly cheery, “May it be the first of many!”

“May it really, really not,” says Enjolras between bursts of breathless laughter as he clutches at Grantaire.

Grantaire staggers to his feet, gurgling with laughter as he helps Enjolras up. He reminds Grantaire of Bambi in the first frost, legs sliding in every which direction and the most precious wide-eyed look on his face. “Yaaay! Well done,” says Grantaire.

“For that trouble, I want a fucking kiss now,” says Enjolras grumpily, and Grantaire obliges.

“GET OUT OF THE WAY! FUCKING LOVEBIRDS.” Someone screams at them, and they break apart with matching grins, their breath visible in the chilly air as Grantaire peddles them toward the edge of the ice.

“We can just get off the ice and find somewhere to sit down and make out,” Grantaire offers because as _fucking hilarious_ as Enjolras on the ice is, he does actually want him to enjoy himself.

“I can’t give up now,” says Enjolras, despair plain upon his face.

“You said it, not me,” says Grantaire, placing Enjolras’s hands on his hips again. “Here, just feel how I’m moving, and copy. Weight on your left leg, right leg, left, right, and up and down and up and down, In, out, in out.”

“I feel like I’m listening to a porn manual,” says Enjolras, who is nonetheless following Grantaire’s instructions.

“In, out, in, out, shake it all about?” suggests Grantaire.

“I don’t even want to know what porn _you’ve_ been watching.”

“Not bad,” says Grantaire, who can feel Enjolras shifting his weight from foot to foot and actually moving forward. “Keep going.” He takes hold of Enjolras’s hands and lifts them off his hips.

“What’re you doing?” Enjolras says, panic rising in his voice.

Grantaire keeps Enjolras’s hands in his. “Just keep going. I’m not letting go, don’t worry.” He lifts their arms up, does a neat little half turn, and keeps skating.

“What,” says Enjolras. “ _What’re you doing?_ ”

“I didn’t come onto the ice to spend the entire night looking at other people,” says Grantaire as he skates backwards.

“But you can’t see where you’re going!” Enjolras clings to his hands, faltering steps as he struggles to both properly panic and keep his rhythm.

Grantaire glances behind. “Well, that’s why you’re going to have to tell me.”

“This is a terrible idea,” says Enjolras.

“It is,” agrees Grantaire, who has been skating backwards since he was seven.

Enjolras’s hands clench around Grantaire’s own. “There’s a couple on the right!”

Grantaire dutifully skates more to the left, and he’s watching Enjolras’s face so he sees when the panic increases. “Left! I mean – my right, your–” It’s too late; they crash straight into the backs of the people in front and Enjolras ends up with his face smushed into the front of Grantaire’s coat as they tumble over. Grantaire lands on his arse with a bump and a laugh, and Enjolras has to kind of roll himself over halfway before propping himself up, since he can’t actually bend over properly due to too many layers.

“Such an awful idea, Grantaire,” says Enjolras as Grantaire apologises, repeatedly, to the couple they knocked over.

“How’s this for an idea,” says Grantaire as he helps Enjolras up, and then sweeps him off his feet.

Enjolras yells bloody murder as his feet come off the ground. Grantaire gasps, “Oh my god, _stop squirming_!” as he wobbles over the ice. “I’m not kidnapping him, I promise!” He yells at the people who stare at them. “Although you’re forgiven for thinking that I would!”

“Gran _taire_ , what are you doing?” says Enjolras, having gone as rigid as a block of ice. He’s in the bridal position, and Grantaire notes that despite everything, Enjolras has his arms around Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire does a perfectly executed 1080 degree spin, and Enjolras’s grip tightens. “Relax. I’ve got you. Please don’t strangle me.”

It takes another two laps of the ice rink for Enjolras to be convinced, by which time he’s starting to look around as Grantaire weaves effortlessly between other people. “So, you’re an ice skater.”

“Figure skater. When I was younger,” says Grantaire, “I’m going to put you down now, before my arms give out. You took me to watch something you were good at, so I figured unless you wanted to sit next to me at a computer, this was it.”

“Oof.” Enjolras’s feet touch the ice, and he miraculously stays upright. “You’re wearing a lot more clothes than I was,” he says critically, and Grantaire laughs. “Go on, show me.” He staggers to the side of the rink and crosses his arms.

Grantaire salutes, and then sets off. The rink isn’t completely packed, but Grantaire sticks to easier things anyway: a scratch spin, carving neat circles in the ice around himself with his left foot, then some fancy footwork and dance moves to the music the DJ is pumping out. He finishes off with a double loop into a single loop when there’s a free stretch, barely pulling up short in front of some kids going slowly.

Several people cheer Grantaire as he makes his way to the edge of the ice, and he ducks his head and grins. Enjolras’s clapping is muffled by his mittens (and Grantaire still can’t get over that; he wants to know if they have a string attached to them both that run through his sleeves), until it slows. “Well, consider me impressed.” He grabs the lapels of Grantaire’s coat and Grantaire stumbles forward, pushing them off the ice as Enjolras slips his lips over Grantaire’s.

Enjolras’s lips are ice cold but still soft, and he sinks into Grantaire. “You’re boiling, I can’t believe you,” says Enjolras, huffing as he eyes the swiftly cooling sweat on Grantaire’s neck.

~

They go for food soon after that, Enjolras at his limit for cold weather but being unwilling to admit it, so Grantaire pretending that he’s tired. It’s a fairly busy Italian place, but they’ve tramped up Kingsway into the area with more students and fewer tourists and so the calzones there are cheap and huge and fresh out of the oven.

They order two different ones off the menu and share them both, hot tomato sauce dripping all over Grantaire’s fingers as Enjolras takes a bite out of the one he’s holding up. (It’s a pretty cute restaurant and everyone else is using a knife and fork but Grantaire _doesn’t care_.) This is central London, which means that real estate is at a premium and so the tables are packed close together and Grantaire’s got one of Enjolras’s legs tucked between his own.

Enjolras holds up a glass of wine, still full, because they were too distracted trying to stop toppings rolling down their hands to drink anything. “I’m going to tell you now, before I start drinking this, that I am not such a lightweight that consent is an issue after one glass.”

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire, because that’s better than leaning over the table and looking deep into his eyes and whispering ‘ _you are so precious’_. “Are you ready to leave?” asks Grantaire, who’s ordered a soft drink because there’s no such thing as just one glass of wine for him.

“Yes,” says Enjolras, draining the entire glass like a heathen and Grantaire is drunk on something else entirely.

Grantaire just has his coat to slip on, but Enjolras has to pull layers and layers back on when they leave. Grantaire takes the opportunity to pay for the both of them and Enjolras protests, trying to fish his wallet out with his mittens. Grantaire shushes him, hustling him out of the door as he collects his change. He’s just pulling the restaurant door shut behind him when he hears someone call out, “Enjolras!”

Enjolras looks around, and Grantaire can tell from the way his eyes fail to focus on anyone that he doesn’t recognise any of the people on the street. A young man, possibly still a student, crosses the street toward them. “Yes?”

“Oh man, I knew it was you. I recognised you, from, from,” he waves his arms a little, “the _internet_. You look even, er, better in person.”

Grantaire looks up from where he’s doing up his buttons to see the young man eyeing Enjolras like a particularly tender piece of steak. (He recognises the look from himself.) Enjolras smiles. “Thanks. Always nice to meet a fan.”

“I’d ask you to sign something but pretty much the only appropriate thing would be my _dick_ , and – oh, is this your boyfriend?”

Grantaire braces himself, set for ‘no, he’s not’ or ‘he’s just a friend’ or something else, but Enjolras doesn’t. He looks over at him. “This is Grantaire,” he simply says with a smile, and leaves the pause for Grantaire to fill in himself.

“I’m just a colleague,” says Grantaire smoothly even though inwardly his stomach is roiling. “I’m in IT.” He could have said date or boyfriend or anything just now, and Enjolras would have let him.

The young man looks him over. “Wow, you should consider the other side of the camera. I’d subscribe.” Grantaire flushes furiously, and mentally blames it on the change in temperature between outside and indoors.

Enjolras smoothly takes over after that and is duly attentive; he asks a couple of questions on what the guy likes, what he’d like to see more of and successfully talks him into a more expensive subscription in about two minutes flat. It’s a good thing he leaves after that, because Grantaire’s ready to stab his eyes out.

“Sorry about that,” says Enjolras, pulling his scarf on.

“Does that happen often?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Not _that_ often. Couple of times a month? I’ve stopped going to gay clubs though. Sometimes I get solicited because people equate porn with sex worker. Then, I ask for their card and call the police,” says Enjolras and Grantaire laughs in awe. “More often than not, I see a look of recognition and then they pretend not to have seen me but stare whenever they think I’m not looking.”

“Want to come over? You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” asks Grantaire suddenly.

“Yes, and no,” says Enjolras and that’s the second time today that Enjolras has just been blunt about what he wants. Grantaire likes that. They get a taxi back to his, which always feels like a luxury for Grantaire. He doesn’t live that far away and he can afford it now, but it’s not been too long since he would have walked the forty-five minutes instead.

Grantaire wishes that his building has a lift, because his muscles ache after all that ice-skating, at least right up until Enjolras hums, and pats his arse quite happily. Grantaire is infinitely glad that Enjolras can’t see his face, because he is _appalled_ at how goddamn cute this man is. “Ta-da!” he says, throwing open the door finally and kicking his shoes off into the pile near the door. “Can I get you anything to drink, or would you just prefer to get naked?”

“Naked works for me,” says Enjolras, tumbling after him and Grantaire is _so_ glad that his central heating is on a timer so that his flat isn’t stone cold.

What follows is possibly the most unsexy strip scene ever, because Enjolras is genuinely wearing six layers, and absolutely no one makes woollen grey long johns sexy.

“That man was right,” says Enjolras, climbing onto Grantaire’s bed and curling into the warmth like a cat. Grantaire frowns; it takes him a moment to realise that Enjolras means the fan outside the restaurant. “You would be spectacular on the other side of the camera.”

“You don’t know that,” says Grantaire, who takes a moment, just a short one, to admire the sight of Enjolras leaning against his pillows before pressing his cold hands into Enjolras’s waist and making him hiss and squirm.

Enjolras retaliates by nudging his cold nose against Grantaire’s neck. “Oh, so you don’t want to be just _colleagues_ then?”

“I, ah,” Grantaire squeaks, and shudders. “I didn’t know what you wanted him to know.”

“Boyfriends?” says Enjolras, marking each breath with a kiss across Grantaire’s throat. With Grantaire lying completely on top of him, there's no way that he misses the way Grantaire's breath hitches or his heartrate speeds up. “The guy I’m seeing? My date?”

“All very good suggestions,” says Grantaire solemnly. “I’ll keep those in mind for next time someone asks you to _sign their dick_.”

Enjolras throws a leg over Grantaire’s hip. “Are we _still_ talking about another man? Where do you keep your lubes and condoms?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somerset House is a real place that opens up a large outdoor ice rink in the winter ([link](http://www.somersethouse.org.uk/ice-rink)). There's a DJ who pumps out music on club nights, certain days have Christmas music and there's special offers going on for kids or students and there are often food stalls and coffee vendors, etc nearby. It's pretty awesome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2700 words of bizarre porn.

Grantaire is really fucking nervous. Also, really hella excited. The result is somewhat pleasing, as it means his abs are tense and his dick is hard and Enjolras is looking at him like he’s like a particularly tasty snack.

Watching Enjolras run a finger up from the base of his cock, Grantaire tries not to be self-conscious (and fails, but at least this time he’s tried) and asks, “So, do you want me to – or, do you want to… oh, um, _oh._ ” Grantaire’s babbling is cut off when Enjolras slides down from underneath him, pulls open a condom and rolls it onto Grantaire with his mouth, hands pulling Grantaire’s hips down onto his face.

Grantaire’s brain shorts out for a moment as he’s engulfed in Enjolras’s hot, wet mouth with his lips a cold ring around the base of his cock. He’s pretty sure he makes a truly embarrassing moan but he doesn’t remember doing it. Enjolras pushes Grantaire’s hips up, lets him go with a swipe of his tongue, and shuffles back up the bed like some sort of, of _sexy ninja crab_. (Grantaire’s mind provides the worst illustrations when he’s distracted.)

“So, I’m warning you now that being seen public with me will result in complete strangers offering you threesomes. On the other hand, great sex,” says Enjolras matter-of-factly and Grantaire laughs and rubs his dick against Enjolras’s thigh as he goes for the lube.

He places reverent kisses down Enjolras’s body, watching as Enjolras luxuriously squirms on his bed. “Mmm,” Enjolras says approvingly when Grantaire’s stubble rubs across the inside of his thigh, and Grantaire does it some more.

“Finger me and do that at the same time,” says Enjolras, winding his fingers through Grantaire’s hair.

The lube goes everywhere a bit – Enjolras squeaks in the most endearing way as the cool liquid splatters across him and Grantaire uses his fingers to wipe it up. He teases a finger around the puckered skin of Enjolras’s arsehole, and kisses the stubble-scratched redness of Enjolras’s skin.

Grantaire inches his finger in slowly, savouring the way Enjolras is hot and tight around his finger and his thigh is smooth with the light fuzz of hair under his lips. “Am I – Can I –” Grantaire stops to bite him lightly, questioningly.

“What? Oh – yes. I don’t have any more filming until after the New Year.” His grip tightens in Grantaire’s hair as if to express how much he approves of that idea.

Grantaire bites a kiss into Enjolras’s hip and eases his finger in some more at the same time and Enjolras likes that judging from the way he arches into it so Grantaire does it again, dotting up a sharp row of lovebites down Enjolras’ v-line.

Enjolras, who’s propped himself up on his elbows to watch Grantaire work, spreads his legs a bit more. Grantaire lines up a second finger, bites his lip consideringly, and –

“Wai –”

Slides them both all the way in.

“ _Ow!_ ” gasps Enjolras. Grantaire freezes and pulls out.

“Shit,” he says, wiping his hand carelessly on the duvet. “Shit, fuck, sorry.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, _crap, why isn’t he answering._

Grantaire hesitantly raises his hand to Enjolras’s shoulder. “Shit, Enjolras. I’m sorry.” Every muscle in Grantaire’s body is screaming _run, run, run away_ except Enjolras’s face is screwed up in pain as he breathes, and he can’t just leave him here and beside this is _his_ flat, so he hasn’t got anywhere to run to.

Enjolras waves him off. “It’s – well, it’s not fine, but –”

“Do you want some coffee?” he blurts out stupidly, blindly, throwing himself off the bed and fleeing into the bathroom.

“Grantaire!” He can hear the tail end of Enjolras calling for him, and bolts the door for good measure. His bathroom’s not big, so he just paces around in a circle wondering what in god’s name he’s doing. When he opens the cabinet door and looks inside just for the sake of having something to do (and then shuts it again, and then opens it again), his hands are shaking.

There’s a knock at the door, and Grantaire starts, knocking over a bottle of mouthwash. “Grantaire!” Enjolras knocks again. “Are you all right?”

Grantaire sits down on the toilet seat weakly. “Am _I_ all right?”

“Open the door, you idiot.”

Grantaire blinks uncomprehendingly at his knees for a moment. Enjolras doesn’t sound hurt, or angry, or even annoyed. “What?”

“The door. Open it.”

It’s not a request, so Grantaire slowly gets up and wiggles the door bolt back. On the other side is Enjolras, still naked, still gorgeous, looking rather confused.

“Sorry,” says Grantaire.

“I know,” says Enjolras. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I really like you,” says Grantaire, blinking rapidly because Enjolras has wrapped one hand around the door frame which means that Grantaire can’t slam the door shut again unless he wants to break those lovely slender fingers, his voice rising hysterically. “You’re funny and intelligent and you’re single-handedly trying to improve the reputation of porn and, yeah, okay, you’re really good-looking which is, is _definitely_ not the only reason I like you, I want to be really clear, and you actually seem to like _me_ , which is just silly, what are you _stupid_? I mean, crap, you’re not–”

“Gran _taire_!”

Grantaire flinches. “Do you want some coffee? I can go do coffee.” He slides under Enjolras’s arm and staggers toward the kitchen.

“Okay, fine, coffee sounds great,” sighs Enjolras, walking after him and Grantaire walks a little faster and Enjolras follows him a little faster and crap, his kitchen isn’t that far away, which means that Grantaire has to settle for filling the kettle and by then Enjolras has cornered him.

“Grantaire.”

“Yes?” Grantaire says in a small voice.

“You are having the biggest freak out I have ever seen in reaction to bad sex.”

Grantaire winces again, and Enjolras approaches him like he’s a skittish animal. Enjolras runs his hands down the bare skin of Grantaire’s arms, stroking it gently. “It’s not a big deal,” says Enjolras again. “It happens all the time.” Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, and Enjolras pops a finger over his lips. “Listen to me. _All_ the time.” He replaces his finger with his lips and Grantaire whimpers because this is not the correct reaction to bad sex. He doesn’t understand.

Enjolras pulls back. “Come on. Kiss me back.” And when he puts it like that, Grantaire can’t _not_. He leans into Enjolras’s chest and his body is enjoying itself because he’s naked against an equally naked man even if Grantaire’s mind is still in complete disarray. His fingers twitch automatically at the thought of all that skin so near him and Enjolras must see, because he takes Grantaire’s hand in his, entwining their fingers, and then places Grantaire’s hand on his hip.

Enjolras massages his fingers into the tense muscle across Grantaire’s shoulder and he makes matching circles on Enjolras’s hip. As Enjolras tugs Grantaire back toward the bedroom, Grantaire protests, “But the coffee–”

“You don’t _honestly_ think I actually want coffee,” says Enjolras, and squeezes his arse. “Come on and finish what you started.”

Grantaire goes red at the reminder. “Sorry. Sorry, I just – Sorry.” He presses his hands over his face and takes a deep, shuddering breath, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales it explosively. “Right. Sorry. That sucked. I’d like to try again though?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” says Enjolras. His smile is blinding and Grantaire is the luckiest fucking sod in the world.

~

Take two (or three, if they’re keeping count properly) goes a lot better.

Well. Relatively speaking.

Grantaire is hesitant and awkward and Enjolras starts getting impatient. Eventually he just rolls them over, crawls down the length of Grantaire’s body with as much skin contact as humanly possible and announces, “I would like to suck you off. Speak now or forever hold your peace.” And then proceeds to do so.

Enjolras presses soft, wet kisses to Grantaire’s cock. He proves that it’s not just a trick of the camera when he takes Grantaire’s flaccid cock into his mouth and sucks, slowly building pressure, and Grantaire can feel his cock going hard against the inside of Enjolras’s mouth and dear god, that trick should be outlawed as Enjolras comes back up for air.

“Holy fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire groans. He knows as an actual fact that Enjolras is fully capable of going all the way down on dicks larger than his, so Enjolras’s decision to just mouth at the tip and lick at the precum is definitely just teasing.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire realises that he’s been doing nothing except staring at Enjolras with his mouth half open in a dreamy haze for the last few minutes. “I didn’t mean for you to not speak for the rest of the time.”

“Just… thinking,” says Grantaire, struggling with words, and Enjolras looks insulted.

“I must be doing it wrong if you’re still thinking.” Enjolras flicks his tongue over the head of Grantaire’s cock and trails his fingers up and down so lightly that Grantaire shudders because it’s either ticklish or orgasmic, or possibly both. “Are you ticklish?” asks Enjolras, the words a heavy breath of air against skin as he slides his hands up Grantaire’s sides.

“Erm,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras slides his head down the length of Grantaire’s cock, and tickles him at the same time. Grantaire gives a strangled scream, and flails uncontrollably. He bucks his hips up and squirms and he’s trying to laugh and moan at the same time, so he ends up making the most unsexy sound, like a _dying dinosaur_ and somehow, _somehow_ , he hasn’t managed to choke Enjolras to death with his _cock_ and Enjolras is still sucking him off.

“Oh my god, _enough,_ ” he begs between small gasps, still trying to buck Enjolras off him because the bizarre mix of stimulation is driving him crazy. Enjolras just hums and pins Grantaire’s hips down, bobbing his head up and down because he has absolutely no gag reflex. Normally Grantaire would at least admire that, maybe compliment him on it but he can’t, because there are no words for how _amazing_ and _painful_ this is right now.

Grantaire resorts to grabbing a fistful of impossibly soft hair, but he can’t actually do anything with it unless he wants to yank Enjolras’s hair out, so he clenches his hands into Enjolras’s hair and begs just in time for orgasm to hit him like a speeding train and he comes into the back of Enjolras’s throat and screams the ceiling down. He can feel Enjolras swallowing around him and Grantaire subsides into whimpers until Enjolras slides gently off his cock.

“What the fuck _,_ ” gasps Grantaire curling up into himself as Enjolras reaches down and strokes him through the last few shuddering pulses of orgasm.

Enjolras flops over next to him, and lets Grantaire burrow into his chest.

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Grantaire, limp against Enjolras’s shoulder, halfway between post-coital high and absolute terror. “Fucking fuck the fuck was that?”

“That was fun,” says Enjolras, and the fucker is laughing at him; can’t he tell that Grantaire is in _pain_ , he’s just had the most amazing orgasm of his _life_. Enjolras’s chest vibrates as he chuckles and pets Grantaire’s hair away from his face and holds him until his body stops convulsing with aftershocks.

Eventually, Grantaire’s muscles regain the ability to move, and he exhales. “Wow,” he says. “Just. Wow. What the fuck was that?”

Enjolras smiles apologetically. (Grantaire bets that he’s not remotely sorry, the sexy deep-throating bastard.) “I figured that a change of pace was needed to help you forget about your panic. Also, you looked amazing.”

Grantaire hides his smile in Enjolras’s neck. “Thanks. Oh my god fuck, the fuck was that. Oh god. Wow. I must be the shittiest sexual partner you’ve ever had. Three goes at sex and you still haven’t come yet. _Holy shitting fuck,_ please do that again sometime.” Grantaire laughs breathlessly.

“Well, then we’ll just have to keep trying,” says Enjolras finally with an air of determination that makes Grantaire lean up and kiss him because Grantaire’s great with words, but not so good at being _Grantaire_.

They end up rolling around the bed as Enjolras chases Grantaire’s mouth as he pulls away, and Enjolras bullies Grantaire into sitting up and then crawls into the v between his legs and pulls Grantaire’s arms around his waist. “Are you going to help me out here, or am I going to have to do this all by myself?” asks Enjolras archly, snuggling his back into Grantaire's chest. "Hand me the lube."

"Are you always this demanding?" asks Grantaire, handing the lube over anyway.

"Yes." Enjolras starts fingering himself slowly and Grantaire has to peer over his shoulder to see. "If no one asks for what they want, how are they going to get it?"

"And what is it you want?" Grantaire lazily runs his hands over Enjolras's chest, rolling his nipples between his fingers.

Enjolras turns his head to bump his nose with Grantaire's. "Good sex education for everyone, you to put your hands on my cock and world peace," he says promptly and Grantaire laughs.

"I can help with one of those at least."

“You’re not going to help me with world peace?” Enjolras looks distraught and Grantaire laughs, helplessly beguiled. He presses his palms to Enjolras's skin and drags his hands down to his hips, inching his fingers closer together. He's not trying to be a tease – he just really likes the feel of Enjolras's skin under his hands.

Enjolras goes hard in his hands, the little puffs of breath and twitches in his legs corresponding to the pressure, the twists, the strokes that Grantaire makes. He makes a mental note every time he hears Enjolras gasp slightly or sees his muscles tense, and does it more often; he can see Enjolras watching him, watching his hands move.

After Enjolras works himself open with his fingers, he pulls them out with a wet slide and makes an enquiring noise. Grantaire already knows what he's asking, and slips his fingers in place instead, one hand stroking Enjolras's cock and the other thrusting two fingers inside him, which leaves Enjolras's hands free to fist in Grantaire's sheets.

Enjolras strains against Grantaire as he takes over, and Grantaire suddenly has the compulsion to whisper against his hair as he watches his fingers slide in and out of Enjolras’s arse, "Next time."

"Next time," agrees Enjolras, and Grantaire fervently wishes that he were sixteen again with a recovery period quicker than it took to come in the first place.

Enjolras is tight and hot and Grantaire can feel when the muscles in Enjolras's entire body tense. His breaths get shorter and shorter and there's suddenly a sheen of sweat on Enjolras's skin that Grantaire licks away.

"Is all that moaning just for the cameras?" asks Grantaire, nibbling the shell of his ear, because he’s not brave enough to ask Enjolras if this feels awful and he’s just faking it. Enjolras groans and bucks against Grantaire's hand; it is unbelievably hot to have this lean, muscled god squirming cradled in Grantaire's arms and Grantaire almost doesn’t want to know if he’s faking it: he is memorising every moment of it.

"Are you... seriously expecting... me to talk... r-right now? I'm _concentrating_." Enjolras moves his hands to Grantaire’s thighs and there’s the sharp pressure of his fingers digging into Grantaire’s muscles.

Grantaire bites his earlobe in retaliation and snorts (in relief, not amusement, but Enjolras doesn’t need to know that). Enjolras doesn't come like Grantaire, fast and sudden and explosively. Rather, Grantaire can feel the tension building up in him as Enjolras groans a little louder, squirms a little more, hooks his hands under his knees to keep his legs apart for Grantaire.

"So close," murmurs Grantaire, nuzzling Enjolras's neck and deliberately scratching his stubble across the sensitive skin, and that does the trick. Enjolras grunts, and clenches right around Grantaire's fingers, and then he's plastering white streaks across his stomach and Grantaire's hand. Grantaire keeps stroking gently, coaxing the last spurts of come until Enjolras cries out from overstimulation.

When Grantaire tries to slide his fingers out, Enjolras murmurs, "Leave them," and flops over sideways onto Grantaire's chest for a long, indolent kiss that’s more tongue than anything else.

And so Grantaire does.

Post-coital Enjolras is a sight he's never had the privilege of seeing, and it turns out that post-coital Enjolras involves a lot of cuddling, the occasional kiss and Grantaire every so often sliding his fingers in and out of Enjolras’s arse to hear him purr like an enormous cat.

"Well?" asks Grantaire because he is a masochist. “Verdict?” There’s no way that Grantaire matches up to half the people Enjolras has sex with on a regular basis, especially not after earlier.

“Mmmm,” says Enjolras, and rubs his face all over Grantaire’s stubble. (He’s definitely keeping the stubble.) “I’d like a little more time to decide.”

Grantaire’s stomach drops.

Enjolras gently bites at Grantaire’s jaw and squirms his arse down onto Grantaire’s hand. “Maybe ask me again after round two. Or three. Or more, if we want to be really certain.”

_Oh._


	10. Chapter 10

Grantaire loves Christmas shopping. Or more precisely, he loves it now he's not counting every penny. He winds through Camden market on his way home most days to see if anything catches his eye for anyone he wants to buy for. If Eponine ends up with five completely unrelated presents, well, he hasn’t always had the means to give her something.

Enjolras, on the other hand, hates Christmas shopping.

They text each other frequently now, talking about anything under the sun: the weather, the news, opinions on mental health and cult movies and flavours of ice cream. It’s more like one neverending conversation than anything else, both of them picking up the threads of where they left off the last time with ease. Grantaire knows that Enjolras hates Christmas shopping, because he receives a diatribe on the state of sex education with regards to the enjoyment of sex and ‘Do you mind terribly if I get you a giftcard for Christmas?’ tacked unsubtly onto the end of it.

Grantaire shows Eponine.

“Dump him,” says Eponine ruthlessly. (Eponine has always given everyone important in her life presents every year, whether she could afford to or not.) “Have sex with him again, and then dump him.” They’re over at her flat, playing separate phone app games whilst sitting together and making a drinking game of how much their stats increase each time they refresh the statcounter.

The phone pings again and Grantaire opens it to find a text from Combeferre – sometime in the last week, it seems as though everyone has got a hold of his number – which simply reads, ‘Do not encourage him.’

‘You could always get me an iTunes voucher?’ types Grantaire back to Enjolras. ‘I always need to download apps to see what the competition is doing.’

‘Okay :D’

Grantaire snorts. “Bless him.”

“Seriously? _Bless him_?” Eponine smacks him on the arm. “He’s getting you an iTunes giftcard for Christmas! You stupid fucking smitten thing,” she grumbles but she's also wedging her toes under Grantaire's thigh, and he likes to think that she's wiggling her toes in support.

Two minutes later, another text pings through. ‘Never mind. Combeferre said I couldn’t. :( Courfeyrac, Jehan and Feuilly too. Marius suggested socks.’ is the final message he receives on that subject.

~

Christmas itself has always been a moderate affair for Grantaire. He sleeps over Christmas Eve at Eponine’s; he, Eponine and Gavroche spend the morning together eating too much chocolate and watching whatever’s on TV. (The chocolate is a bribe to themselves for being good and not opening presents yet.) After a truly ridiculous lack of actual breakfast, they drag themselves off to Joly’s, Musichetta’s and Bossuet’s place to help with the Christmas dinner and exchange presents and bask in the warmth of their little family.

When they turn up at Joly’s, Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s, Eponine has a tinsel necklace and bracelets, Grantaire has the star from atop their tree tied into his hair, and Gavroche is carrying all of the presents as part of a deal where he has not been forced to wear any tinsel, ornaments, or ugly Christmas items of clothing.

This year, Marius had asked if Courfeyrac could spend Christmas with them, and Bahorel revealed that he had asked Feuilly; one thing led to another and there are going to be more people than ever.

“Grantaire! You’re looking very shiny,” says Musichetta, kissing him on both cheeks.

“Why thank you,” says Grantaire, preening as he presses three bottles of wine into her hands. (It had long since been decided that it was better than asking him for a dish of lumpy mashed potato or inedible stuffing.) Gavroche replaces the free space in his hands with his portion of presents as they tumble into the living room; one of the reasons they all wait to do presents is because then they can arrange them all under one tree so that it resembles the ones photographed in magazines and on tv that are heaped high with presents, and the stack is really quite impressive this year.

“You’re on brussel sprouts duty,” says Musichetta, shuffling him into the kitchen. “Gavroche is on potato mashing duty, and Eponine and I are going to have a very large glass of wine and watch the turkey in the oven!” (Although, to be fair, Joly does the most of the cooking because he is measured and precise, Bossuet is allowed to do small things that don’t involve knives, and Musichetta makes sure nothing burns. The three of them have a system that’s very well sorted and Grantaire just does as he’s told to avoid any confusion.)

Grantaire ends up leaving the star in his hair because there is a point where Joly is getting progressively more stressed and taking progressively larger gulps of cheap wine that means that Grantaire has to take over the knives and that point was probably five minutes ago. What’s usually a sizeable amount of food is a small mountain this year since their numbers have about doubled, and there’s so much food that Grantaire’s banished to the dining room with piles of vegetables.

At some point, Bahorel arrives just in time to save Joly from attempting to frost three different cakes by himself. By the time everything that needs to be is in the oven, the stoves are full with pans of things that just need reheating, and the cheesecake is setting in the fridge, Grantaire is exhausted.

He and Joly and Gavroche steal a couple of the salmon hors d'oeuvres for their trouble and pile back into the living room. He’s almost forgotten that they were expecting more people, and promptly trips over Marius on his way in. Combeferre ducks out of the way, and he lands smack bang on top of Enjolras. Or rather, he would have if Enjolras hadn’t turned, and caught him. Grantaire blinks up at him. “Smooth fucker,” he says maybe a bit more loudly than he intends to. (Combeferre makes an odd noise, and by the time Grantaire looks at him, he’s smoothing his face out with his hand.)

“Merry Christmas,” Enjolras says in return, and hovers awkwardly for a moment before giving him a quick kiss. Grantaire warms a little at the thought of such casual kisses being a thing from now on.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” asks Grantaire, because he is bone tired and swaying on his feet – has he really been in the kitchen for four hours already? – which means that his verbal filters fly out of the window.

Enjolras plucks at his Christmas jumper. It’s red and green and white and is probably featuring running reindeer, but it looks like bears with antlers doing interpretive dance. “This? Cosette knitted it for me.”

Cosette waves over at him sweetly. “Hi.”

“Oh. Er. It’s very. Christmassy?” Grantaire smiles encouragingly as if his eyes aren’t threatening to roll themselves out of their eye sockets. Now he’s looked around though, he’s noticing a theme. Courfeyrac has a hat with a similar pattern (although his is lopsided penguins), Feuilly is wearing garish socks. Marius is wearing one of the jumpers _and_ matching socks. He looks at Combeferre.

“Scarf,” Combeferre says helpfully, which means that he got to take his off once he got indoors.

“There’s something for you too, but we only found out about you guys opening presents together once they’d all opened these,” says Cosette.

“Oh. That’s great, thanks,” says Grantaire, halfway between pleasure at being included, and mild horror at the idea that she might expect him to wear it.

Enjolras raises a hand to Grantaire’s hair. “What are you wearing?”

“Wha – oh crap, I forgot about that,” says Grantaire, hands flying up to try and disentangle the star. “Bossuet, is _that_ why you were taking so many pictures of us cooking?” He gives up and leans back against the sofa and blinks blankly. “Marius, what are you even doing here?” Usually, Marius arrives after Christmas dinner. He will have managed to sneak away from his family by late afternoon after they’ve broken out the alcohol (but that’s all right because he’ll have been drinking through lunch to survive his grandfather’s speeches) in time for the rounds of board games and shrieked Christmas carols.

“Um,” says Marius. “Grandfather died, remember?”

Grantaire blinks again.

“I am free from the tyranny of his house?” Marius tries again.

“He’s skipping Christmas with his tosspot family to spend it with his _awesome_ family,” says Courfeyrac, who looks like he may have had a hand in convincing Marius.

“All things food-y are prepared! Time for presents!” yells Bossuet as Musichetta, the last one missing, walks in and flops over onto his lap and turns the tv on in time for the Queen’s Speech to go on in the background.

There’s a flurry of movement – there’s too many of them and it would be far too sentimental to sit around and open one each, so there’s just a general crowd of people fighting to pass gifts out and running across the room exclaiming to thank each other.

Grantaire unwraps a present from Eponine, one of which is always ten pairs of black socks, exactly the same as the rest of all his black socks because if all he has are black socks of the same brand, he will always have a matching pair and at one point in Grantaire’s life, it was very reassuring to have just one thing less to worry about. He always returns the favour by handing her a package of twenty socks, absolutely none of which are the same, packaged with a liberal smatter of glitter. (He’s taken to hunting down bizarre socks for this very reason.)

“You two have been friends for a very long time, haven’t you?” asks Enjolras with amusement, as he looks at Grantaire rolling his black socks into one big sock ball and Eponine sitting in her glitter puddle and rearranging her socks in order of length so that she can wear them all at the same time and have them all be seen.

“Far too long,” says Eponine dryly. “Enjolras, for you.”

Enjolras looks surprised, but accepts it and tears the paper open in true wasteful fashion in front of her. It’s a plain notepad; Enjolras opens it curiously, and then turns pink. “Thank you,” he says, and puts it away.

“What, what, what?” demands Grantaire.

“It wasn’t a present for you, don’t be greedy,” says Eponine, chiding, and runs away to hand presents to Marius and Cosette. Grantaire pouts and tugs sadly on the end of Enjolras’s awful jumper, but Enjolras won’t tell him either.

“For you,” says Enjolras instead, and shoves a package at him so badly wrapped that Grantaire had thought it was the paper from an opened present.

Grantaire hands Enjolras his present in return and pulls it apart resorting to using actual teeth and keys. Inside are two boxsets, and Grantaire bursts out laughing. “Did you – You gave me two boxed collections of your pornos. Enjolras, I can’t tell if this is _amazing_ or just excessively vain.”

Enjolras goes pink, his hand stuck inside the wrapping of Grantaire’s present, and says hesitantly, “I thought... we could watch them together?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Grantaire because he’s allowed to be dramatic when he’s dating a sexy, sexy porn star who just wants to pleasure him with sex. He tongues his way enthusiastically through a very thorough kiss and Enjolras is even pinker by the time he leans back. “C’mon, open yours.”

Enjolras finally tears the wrapping paper and it explodes in his face, showering him and his stupid perfect hair and his stupid, stupid jumper with glitter. Grantaire cackles.

“You put glitter in every single present, don’t you?” says Enjolras eventually.

“Every present and every card,” says Grantaire gleefully.

“Every year,” says Marius mournfully, dropping his packages off with them. He, too, is covered in glitter. “For birthdays and Christmasses. And I always forget.”

“It’s a... red tie?” Enjolras pulls it out and looks over. Grantaire shrugs, and motions for him to carry on. “And a... red waistcoat. And... a red cravat. I’m sensing a theme here, Grantaire. Also red leather handcuffs – oooh, these are good quality – and... an iTunes giftcard?” He laughs. “You must really like red.”

“No, but you do?”

“How do you know that?” Enjolras looked pleased, but baffled.

And how can Grantaire answer that? It seems obvious to him: he’s noticed Enjolras’s preference for red sex toys in his videos, his red dressing gown, his red _mittens_. “I just – noticed it?”

Enjolras dips Grantaire down for another kiss, shaking glitter onto him, but as Grantaire is considering sliding his hands up under Enjolras’s jumper, Enjolras pulls back. “I feel bad now. What’s your favourite colour? No – wait, I’m meant to just know, aren’t I? Erm. Is it black?”

Grantaire muffles his laughter. “No.”

“Erm. Blue? You have blue jeans.”

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire as he starts unwrapping some of his other gifts. “Most jeans are blue.”

Enjolras groans. “This is why I don’t do well at dating! People expect me to know these things!”

“I really don’t mind if you don’t know my favourite colour,” says Grantaire soothingly. “Although, it’s green.”

“We’re a walking Christmas advert!” Grantaire snickers as Enjolras groans theatrically again and it somehow ends in an imitation of a fake orgasm.

~

Christmas dinner was far, far too much food for all of them. Gavroche is somehow the only one still eating, despite being half the size of everyone else, and it hurts even to watch him right now.

One by one, they leave the leftovers on the table – Joly is adamant that no one has to clean up on Christmas Day – and roll themselves back to the living room with the wine. Bahorel, who has an immense collection of board games and always complains that no one will play with him, drags out several boxes with glee. Combeferre has passed out in the armchair and everyone gets at least one photo, but no one wants to wake him so everyone else makes a wonky circle on the carpet instead.

No one can be bothered to pick teams or groups, so they’re playing Cards Against Humanity. Or, as Feuilly explains to Marius, “Apples to Apples for terrible human beings.” Courfeyrac is horrifically good at this game and Enjolras is _awful_. He bows out after twenty minutes and declares himself part of Grantaire’s team, to Grantaire’s amusement, because Grantaire has four points.

Grantaire strongly suspects it’s just a ruse to get in some cuddling time though, because Enjolras has wrapped himself around Grantaire ‘to better see his cards’, and is occasionally playing with his hair. Every time it happens, Grantaire’s stomach flips a little, which is not the best thing for it to be doing so full of turkey and stuffing, because this is _not_ how it’s supposed to go.

(Grantaire doesn’t have people who stare at him and want to touch him, Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with all this affection; it’s like he’s got both his hands outstretched and Enjolras is dumping _piles of affection_ into them and his first response is kind of to ask if someone has a _box_ where he can put it all. His mind gets increasingly unravelled the deeper into these analogies he goes and in the meantime, Enjolras has his hand splayed across Grantaire’s stomach, his bloated, too-full stomach, and nuzzles his nose into Grantaire’s neck.)

There’s a lull as Cosette decides who’s the winner of the current round, and Enjolras suddenly says, “I know we haven't been – er, doing this –”

“Going out?”

“Right. Going out for very long, but I wondered if you were, er, free? In mid-January?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Sure?”

“Do you want to...” Enjolras trails off for a moment. “I’m not trying to rush you into – it’s not a big thing – well, it is a big thing, but it’s not a _big thing_ – Grantaire. Do you want to go to Les Vegas with me as my plus-one?”

“...What?”

“Erm. For work. Kind of! The AVN awards are held in Las Vegas in mid-January.”

Grantaire frowns. “The AVN awards?”

Enjolras laughs nervously. “The, er, Porn Oscars?”


	11. Chapter 11

Grantaire is balls deep in Enjolras’s arse, and red looks amazing against Enjolras’s pale skin. (The two thoughts are only tangentially related, but Grantaire’s brain isn’t working to the best of its ability right now, probably because he is _balls deep in Enjolras’s arse_ so he reckons he can be excused.)

“Enjolras, if you don’t stop doing that, I’m going to come,” says Grantaire, panting as Enjolras clenches and unclenches around him, thrusting his hips shallowly because to do otherwise means having to pull his cock out further and he really quite likes the way it feels right now.

Enjolras smirks and locks his legs around Grantaire’s hips so he can’t run away. “I do believe that _coming_ is the entire point of this endeavour.” It’s so hot the way his wrists are bound and he’s _still_ in control. (Then again, _in control_ is not something that Grantaire feels often, especially with the way they’ve tumbled into this easy, affectionate relationship where there’s _kisses_ and _cuddles_ and in no way are fists involved, apart from the ones around his cock and up Enjolras’s arse.)

“I can’t – I won’t last long enough for you–” says Grantaire, fingers pressing tight little bruises into Enjolras’s waist.

“I don’t care,” says Enjolras and it’s not the first time, far from it. Enjolras’s stamina is ridiculous and Grantaire tends to have twice as many orgasms as he does and it makes him feel so guilty, so inadequate but Enjolras always says he doesn’t care and he _doesn’t_ which just makes Grantaire feel worse.

“Enjolras, please,” says Grantaire, licking over his nipple, biting down softly. He’s taking full advantage of the last time he can leave as many marks as he wants to before they start shooting again. “I want you to come first, this time.”

Enjolras growls softly but he understands because he’s the bestest fucking boyfriend ever (Grantaire hates him, he really doesn’t) and he pulls his legs up. Grantaire pulls out with a _schlop_ sound, holding the condom on, and he pushes his face down instead, licking a wet stripe across Enjolras’s arse and rubbing his stubble across the soft, sensitive skin; Enjolras moans, jerking but unable to go anywhere because of the red tie holding him to his bed, and Grantaire does it again.

“Suck me off,” says Enjolras as Grantaire sets about leaving a smatter of bite marks across Enjolras’s inner thigh and fingering him at the same time.

“Were you raised in a barn?” Grantaire scissors his fingers and rubs against Enjolras’s prostate.

Enjolras whines but where he’d usually pull on Grantaire’s hair in an effort to make him stop, he’s stuck with just squirming, his wrists straining against the red fabric and it is _ridiculously hot_. “Please. Please will you suck me off, Grantaire?”

“Yeah, all right,” says Grantaire, because he’s really bad at this denial business; he just wants all the orgasms, all the time.

There is no way that Grantaire is going to manage to deepthroat Enjolras, because he does actually have a gag reflex, so he wraps his hand around the base and inches his way down, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as he goes.

“Teeth,” gasps Enjolras. “Use your teeth.”

Grantaire pulls up immediately. “ _What_.”

Enjolras is biting his lip and he’s studiously looking up at the ceiling and not at Grantaire and there is a really lovely flush of red across Enjolras’s ears and down his neck and Grantaire belatedly realises that this is what Enjolras looks like when he’s embarrassed. He’s been fine suggesting the use of dildos and bondage and Grantaire has seen his collection of floggers – _can_ see them on the dresser right now – and of all things, _this_ is what he’s embarrassed about. It’s adorable.

Crawling up the length of Enjolras’s body, Grantaire asks, “You want me to use my teeth, on your cock?” He waits until Enjolras meets his eyes and nod. “Holy shit.” Enjolras winces a bit. “No – I just. Erm. Okay? But you’re going to have to guide me through exactly how much is okay.”

“Okay.” Enjolras exhales like he had expected Grantaire to refuse, and Grantaire can only lean forward and kiss that expression off his face. “It’s just – a bit intense for some people.”

Grantaire smoothes the damp curls off Enjolras’s face. “I’ve seen you hold a burning candle in your arse as it drips over you, Enjolras, I don’t think a bit of biting is going to top the list for intense kinks you like.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “We can do that later, if you like.”

Sliding back down the bed, Grantaire kisses the tip of Enjolras’s cock. “Just let me, uh, work up to it,” he says, experimentally pressing his bottom teeth just under the head. It actually takes a bit of work for Grantaire to remember to _not_ pull his lips over his teeth because he’s so used to it. He pins Enjolras’s hips down and lightly grazes his teeth down the length of Enjolras. Enjolras bucks under his weight. Grantaire bobs up and down a few more times, quickly, and Enjolras whimpers.

“More,” Enjolras gasps. “Harder.” It takes Grantaire a few empty swallows of his throat to work up the courage to press his teeth harder against Enjolras’s hard cock as he sucks and the moment he does, Enjolras moans so loudly that Grantaire’s sure they could have heard it down the street.

“Okay, wow, you really do like that.”

“More,” says Enjolras again, “A – a _lot_ more. Please.” Grantaire can see his chest heaving and the strain in his thigh muscles. His own penis gives a shuddering twitch of imagined pain as Grantaire bites down the way he would give a lovebite and Enjolras screams and flails, pushing Grantaire up off his hips.

“Enjolras!” Grantaires pulls up.

Enjolras shakes his head and Grantaire can’t tell what it means. “Keep going,” says Enjolras, his words slurring slightly. “Again. Please, please, Grantaire, do it again.”

Grantaire does. He takes Enjolras’s cock a little further down his throat this time and leans his entire body weight down as he bites and scrapes his teeth up and Enjolras screams. His back is arched, his defined muscles tense and his body is doing its best to shake Grantaire off but his eyes are rolled back in his head, babbling inanely, a litany of ‘yes, yes, fuck, _yes_ ’ and he whimpers pitifully when Grantaire pulls off.

Grantaire keeps going and at some point he’s starting fingering Enjolras again. By the time he comes, which he does explosively, Enjolras is a thrashing wreck and there are rings of bite imprints around his cock. Grantaire presses his fingers into the marks and Enjolras moans desperately, limp cock twitching despite itself.

“Holy shit,” says Grantaire because Enjolras is a sight, a pale mass of trembling limbs and white streaks across his chest and belly, hair sticking to his face and rings upon rings of marks across his wrists where he’s been straining against them. There are tear tracks down his face and his eyelashes are still wet and clumped together but his eyes are glazed over in pleasure.

“Fuck me,” whispers Enjolras, looking like a debauched angel and Grantaire does, pushing apart his thighs that shiver and sliding himself in all at once. If this were anyone else, Grantaire wouldn’t have been able to finish himself off like this, thrusting in and out of someone as they lay there and trembled but Enjolras loves the overstimulation, mewling softly as Grantaire takes him roughly, touches him, smooths over the bitemarks and drags his fingers through the sticky mess on his chest.

After Grantaire comes, a relatively undramatic affair compared to earlier but Enjolras moans into it anyway, he flops over, his arms wrapped snug around Enjolras, pulling him closer and petting him. Grantaire undoes the ties and lowers Enjolras’s arms, rubbing the circulation back into his hands and presses a kiss just below his ear.

“Thank you,” whispers Enjolras, curling into the warmth and Grantaire laughs shakily.

“Fairly sure I should be thanking you,” he says gruffly, holding Enjolras until he stops shaking. “Fucking hell, I thought I’d broken you for a moment.”

“Good-broken,” says Enjolras, yawning and drifting off.

Grantaire stays away for a moment longer, reaching out to wipe away the remains of the tears and pulling the covers over them so that they won’t catch a cold. It’s the first time he’s stayed over and just – slept next to Enjolras, although he doesn’t know if this counts, since he hasn’t actually been invited to stay for the night and this is most likely just a nap.

~

When he wakes up again, it’s to stop Enjolras’s hair taking residence inside his nose and mouth. They’re both loose-limbed and exhausted still, taking to slow, lingering kisses and gentle touches across warm, soft skin. Enjolras likes to play with Grantaire’s hair, and Grantaire is dragging the red silk tie across Enjolras’s stomach in return, making him shudder with the memory of Grantaire’s teeth pressing into his cock.

“Are you nominated for anything?” asks Grantaire lazily. “For the awards?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “The AVN awards aren’t – they’re for straight men, really. They don’t have gay sex categories.”

Grantaire makes an enquiring noise.

“They have awards for girl-on-girl and gangbangs and an award for the best foot fetish video of the year but they don’t have gay sex awards. There are a lot of awards, and it got unwieldy at some point so they split off the gay awards for a separate event, but now they’ve discontinued the gay awards and not added it back into the main event, so.” Enjolras’s face looks like he’s just sucked a lemon, or possibly been [figged](http://www.seekers.org.uk/Figging.html).

“That sucks,” says Grantaire, because what else can he say? He didn’t mean to put that look on his face.

“We’ve got our own awards now, of course, but it’s not quite the same.”

“Then why are you going?”

“It’s the biggest industry event of the year. It’s incredibly useful for making contacts, and all the main manufacturers of toys and equipment will be there.”

“Urgh,” says Grantaire, who knows exactly about that sort of thing because they get invites to conventions all the time and their entire PR division consists of Eponine and he isn’t cruel enough to make her go alone.

“Well, it’s a very good place to start talking to people and trying to make them see our point of view,” says Enjolras. “We’re a small company out of choice these days. Our popularity has shot up over the last few years.” He sounds really… earnest, actually. “If everyone made a pact to stop faking orgasms, for example, that in itself would boost the quality of porn and then impressionable teenagers wouldn’t think that fingering an arsehole for half a minute would make someone squirt.”

“ _What_ ,” says Grantaire. “Who even believes that?”

“You know it’s not true, because you’ve had sex, you have the experience to know. But when you were younger, surely you thought that there was something wrong with you because it only took you about five minutes to masturbate? Because in porn, everyone has half hour long boners and that was what defined normal. And it shouldn't.”

“Yeah, but you find out that’s not true.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” says Enjolras. “Porn shouldn’t build such unrealistic expectations. Especially with the straight porn industry. Whole generations of men think that slapping their sexual partners and calling them filthy whores or wet bitches is an acceptable thing to do.”

“We have _definitely_ done dirty talk,” says Grantaire, starting to frown.

“We _negotiated_ it. We discussed it beforehand and you asked me if I enjoyed it. You didn’t just assume I did. We shouldn’t even be doing it to our female co-stars; the entire thing reeks of misogyny.”

“They’re not indentured sex workers or victims of the illegal sex slave trade,” says Grantaire. “I mean – I know these things exist, and it’s shit, it’s really fucking shit, but that’s not these people. These are people who made the decision to go into the industry, just like you did.”

“People who think that’s what they have to put up with to survive in the industry,” argues Enjolras, and Grantaire shakes his head.

“How do you know that? Must you assume that everyone else apart from you and your group of _enlightened ones_ are unthinking peons?”

“I don’t,” says Enjolras furiously, sitting up so hard that Grantaire bounces on the mattress. “That’s exactly one of the stereotypes I’m fighting against! I am well aware that members of the adult video industry are perfectly intelligent. This is entirely different. It’s about not thinking that they could be _better_ and settling for the misogynistic standards that perpetuate the industry.”

“They’re adults,” says Grantaire, exasperated. “They _chose_ this and right, sometimes some of us ordinary human beings settle for things in life, okay. They could have chosen to go into retail work or go to university or go to university and _then_ work in retail or teaching or business or _anything else_ . They didn’t. They chose to work in porn. You can’t fight for people to have more choices and then not believe them when they don’t make the same choice that you would.”

“ _No one_ should settle in life,” says Enjolras explosively and it frightens Grantaire.

It honestly frightens him because he can see that Enjolras _really means it_ and it’s… it’s _stupid_ . It’s stupid and naive and a few other things that Grantaire has had to leave behind him years ago. “Should, would, could, doesn’t matter,” he says shortly. “You deal in ideals and dreams, Enjolras, and you look down on the rest of us for not doing so. Not everyone is like you, Enjolras. We haven’t all been able to grow up rich – and don’t tell me that you didn’t, we’re in your ridiculous rich boy flat in your _ridiculous orgy-sized bed_ , and I know you got this place before you started the company.

“We haven’t all been able to grow up rich and go to university and do whatever subject we wanted to and then get out of university with enough money to _fund our own companies_ , Enjolras.” Grantaire breathes heavily, and he can’t bring himself to take back any of the words he’s said. He knows he’s oversimplified the situation; he knows that Enjolras has worked hard to get to where he is now but he also believes every single word he’s said.

Enjolras looks at him like some creature entirely strange and alien to him. “If you don’t believe in trying to make things better, Grantaire, than what good are you?”

Grantaire recoils, physically moves back from him at that, caught in disbelief and anger but most of all the knowledge that Enjolras is absolutely right. “I’m not.”

The stare at each other, all vestiges of afterglow gone. The silence grows taut.

“Maybe you shouldn’t come to Las Vegas,” says Enjolras eventually, slowly, and it’s like someone drops a chunk of ice down Grantaire’s throat. Grantaire knew it, he _fucking knew_ that this couldn’t have lasted.

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” He leaves.


	12. Chapter 12

Grantaire slides off the bed and starts hunting for his clothes. He can’t see his underwear – that’s right, it’s on Enjolras’s side of the bed – and one of his socks are so far under the bed that Grantaire just cannot deal with trying to reach for it right now. He just crams himself into his trousers and pulls on the shirt. Fucking buttons – no, it’s all right, he can just pull his coat shut over it.

“Wait,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire shuts the door behind him.

Grantaire is half-blind and he’s thankful that he already knows the way home from Enjolras’s so well – he spares a hysterical laugh for that – and it’s only when he gets outside and is halfway to the tube station that he realises that it’s because he’s crying. He stops in the middle of the street and leans against a wall, heaving cold breaths of air that chill him all the way down his throat.

When Grantaire turns around to check, Enjolras isn’t behind him.

He’s freezing, the wind whistling through the gaps in his coat to whip against his bare chest and up under the hems of his jeans. Grantaire huddles in on himself and wipes angrily at the tears before pulling his phone out and calling Eponine. She doesn’t answer and Grantaire heaves a heavy, chilled breath and calls her again. Again, no answer.

Grantaire stares at his phone, as though that will magically make Eponine answer it, and calls her again. Three times is the limit for repeatedly calling someone when they don’t answer though, so Grantaire clenches his phone after the last time, stuffs it back into his pocket and stalks toward the tube station.

The phone rings about two minutes later. (Grantaire’s stomach clenches – he doesn’t know which would be worse: Enjolras calling or not Enjolras calling.) It’s Eponine.

“R,” she says in a strange tone, and that’s all she says and already Grantaire knows, he just _does_.

“Enjolras called you,” he says, disbelief bleeding into his voice. “He – We have an argument and instead of coming after me, he calls _you_?”

“He’s an emotionally stunted bag of dicks,” says Eponine crisply, because she is an expert at avoiding the question when she wants to. “Come round, and we’ll bitch about him and post passive-aggressive facebook statuses.”

~

Passive-aggressive facebook statuses were, in retrospect, a bad idea. Mostly because his friends cannot keep a secret from each other and so everyone knows what’s happened in about two hours flat, and Grantaire has received texts from everyone that say things ranging from ‘Oh honeybear, call me if you want hugs’ (Musichetta) to ‘I’m going to kill him’ (Bahorel) to ‘Enjolras is bad at inter-human relationships’ (Combeferre), the last of which just makes Grantaire sneer, and mutter, “Oh, so it would be fine if I were a chair then.”

He even technically gets a text from Marius, even if it does say ‘I’ll sort out my stupid brother. -Cosette x x’

The only person who doesn’t contact him in some shape or form is Enjolras himself. Grantaire buries his face in Eponine’s lap and just makes wordless whimpering noises as she occasionally pats him like a dog and steals most of his ice cream for herself. “I messed it up, Ep,” says Grantaire suddenly, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. “He’s gorgeous and funny and intelligent and liked me and I fucked it up.”

“No you didn’t, he’s a moron,” replies Ep and Grantaire grabs one of the sofa cushions to press over his face.

“You’re contractually obligated as BFF to say that, it’s not true,” says Grantaire, muffled as he tries to eat the cushion.

“He’s a moron,” says Eponine again, “and stop eating my fucking cushions.” She forcibly spoons a mouthful of cookie dough ice cream into his mouth.

Eponine’s brand of hard love is part of what Grantaire loves about her, but right this second? He just needs someone to validate his feelings of insecurity and fuel his horrifically low self-esteem because then at least he can be proud of _one thing_ , and that is that he’s aware of how much of worthless human being he is. He needs to be right about that, at least.

So Grantaire goes home. He jiggles his knee for the whole bus ride home, trying to relieve the tension, and flops dramatically into his flat, flinging his shoes off and not caring as they hit a wall, and lunges for the sofa – upon which Enjolras is sitting.

“Wha – fuck,” says Grantaire, tripping over his feet as he has to stop throwing himself onto the sofa. He stumbles forward and into Enjolras’s lap anyway and Enjolras catches him, a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face. He’s not allowed to be surprised, thinks Grantaire. He’s the one sitting here sneakily lying in wait for Grantaire _inside his flat_ like a, a, like a sneak thief.

Grantiare pulls himself away immediately, gingerly sitting down on the opposite end of the sofa. (That makes Enjolras look confused, and he’s not allowed to be confused as to why Grantaire doesn’t want to sit near him right now either.)

“What the fuck?” says Grantaire, because he feels that encompasses all the feelings he’s having right now.

“Eponine told me where your spare key was hidden,” says Enjolras, putting Grantaire’s underwear and lone sock on the table. Of course she did. Grantaire’s going to demote her from best friend to betrayer, he is.

Grantaire snatches his clothes up, blushing furiously like he didn’t let Enjolras peel them off him just earlier today.

“Erm. Do you want to have sex?”

“ _What_ ,” says Grantaire, dropping all his clothes and wondering if he missed half the conversation when he was fuming over Eponine’s _epic betrayal_.

“I upset you,” says Enjolras, “and sex makes you happier.”

Grantaire closes his eyes. If they weren’t fighting, he would find this ridiculously endearing, how emotionally incompetent Enjolras is. It speaks volumes that Grantaire is confused, hurting and angry and he _still_ finds it cute. “Enjolras,” he says very patiently, and he can barely believe that he has to say this: “You cannot solve all your problems with your dick.”

Enjolras shuffles on the sofa. “Inappropriate?” he asks eventually.

“Inappropriate,” confirms Grantaire wearily, hugging a cushion to his chest and sinking back into the sofa. He can’t believe that he is (was?) actually the emotionally mature one in this relationship. “Most people just go for flowers or chocolate or grovelling when they’re apologising, for future reference.”

“I’m not apologising,” says Enjolras and that makes Grantaire sit up and look at Enjolras. There’s a frown across his face but also a look of determination. “I think you misunderstood."

"Misunderstood what?" snaps Grantaire. "Maybe if you had come after me, or called _me_ instead of my best friend and _said something_ I wouldn't have misunderstood anything."

"If you had wanted me to come after you, you shouldn't have left."

"If I –" Grantaire inhales sharply and Enjolras tips his head to the side like he's trying to figure out why that was a bad thing to say. (If it coincidentally makes him look like a cocker spaniel, Grantaire has _certainly not_ noticed it.) "Well, now I know why all your performances are scripted. You are the _most stupid_ smart person I have met in my life, you tosspot."

"I called Eponine because I didn't know what to do," says Enjolras. "I always get – these things wrong."

"That's because there is no right answer!" Grantaire bristles. “This is honestly the worst apology I've heard in my life. Give me back my key, Enjolras.”

“I already told you, it's not an apology,” says Enjolras, and what Grantaire would give for that amount of conviction, that simple knowledge that he is right, that he knows exactly what he is doing. “I'm not _sorry._ Grantaire, you've got to understand: I meant every word I said back there.”

Grantaire looks down at his hands, and says dangerously, softly, “ _Every_ word?” He looks up and makes eye contact with Enjolras and wills him to say it, to _not_ say it.

“Every word,” says Enjolras firmly. “Apart from the ones about you not being any good for anything, of course.”

Grantaire laughs hysterically, because he does not know how to deal with this. He's never met anyone with less tact, and he's friends with _Marius._ “Of course.”

Enjolras blinks like it's not occurred to him. “You must know I didn't mean that.”

Closing his eyes, Grantaire prays for someone to give him strength. Or a drink. (He doesn't believe in any higher powers and he doesn't believe in himself either. That's all right; Grantaire's used to not getting what he wants.) “No, Enjolras,” he says slowly, “I really didn't.”

“Oh.”

Grantaire opens his eyes slowly, because he's actually not sure what he'll see on Enjolras's face right now. Enjolras's eyebrows are pulled together and his mouth is set in a light frown and Grantaire realises that it's uncertainty. It's nice to know that Enjolras is capable of feeling that. Grantaire presses the cushion over his face. “You are so–” _stupid, ridiculous, unfeeling,_ “good-looking,” he finishes heatedly.

“Erm,” says Enjolras. “Thank you?”

There's a pause.

“That's a euphemism,” Grantaire clarifies into the cushion.

“A euphemism for what?” Enjolras sounds completely lost, and Grantaire is so, so glad that he's not the only one.

“For 'I want to punch you in the face but you're really good looking so I probably shouldn't break your nose'.” Grantaire has a blinding headache and its name is Enjolras and at least half of the problem is that he can already feel himself weakening, starting to forgive him, god, what _is_ this, his resolve is just pathetic when it comes to Enjolras. "If this is not an apology, then what is it?"

"I wanted to make sure you didn't misunderstand," says Enjolras earnestly.

Grantaire interrupts him. "I think it has been established that I didn't misunderstand anything; you're just bad at explaining."

He can see the exact moment that Enjolras swallows his argument, and nearly pats him on the head for the effort, except he is still angry and hurt and he wants to cling to it as long as he can because he is finding it impossible in the light of... well, Enjolras. Enjolras clears his throat. "Right. Yes. I misspoke. In any case, I did not want you to think that I do not want you to come with me to Las Vegas because I do not want you there."

Grantaire snorts, and Enjolras presses his hands onto his knees as he frowns. Grantaire just stares at him until Enjolras awkwardly removes his hands and carries on. "I just – All I do there is work. I talk to producers, I set up sponsorships and advertising with companies willing to work with us... Courfeyrac and Jehan go to the parties and make connections with the performers, try to convince them of our methods. It's more frustrating than anything else. If you're not, er, interested in that I just don't know what you'd do there."

"You don't – you don't know what I would do there?! I am a real and actual adult, capable of – oh, for the love of god." Grantaire looks dramatically at the ceiling. "I can't believe I dated you."

"Am still dating?" says Enjolras, venturing a guess and looking like he might do things like touch Grantaire again and sear him with the heat of his palms.

"Get out of my flat."

"Do you still want to punch me?"

"In the face," confirms Grantaire. "Get out, go away, evaporate, tall person."

Enjolras stands. "I'll call you," he says, as if Grantaire is still a sure thing. "Are you sure we shouldn't have sex now? You seem–"

"Piss off," says Grantaire, not unfondly, damn Enjolras for working his way into his heart like this.

Enjolras takes one step toward him and Grantaire instinctively sinks back into the sofa, but all Enjolras does is lean down and kiss him on the forehead (the _forehead_ , like he's a small child, what the actual fuck) and walk out of Grantaire's living room.

That is absolutely the last straw. Grantaire throws the cushion at the door as it closes, and claws at his face with his fingers because he cannot deal with this shit; _what is he supposed to do_ with such tender affection?!

Grantaire opens up his laptop, ready to type a new facebook status ( _Stupid E and his stupid pretty hair and his stupid nice kisses_ ) and instead finds a status that he didn't type.

 _R_ _is in a relationship with Enjolras._


	13. Chapter 13

“I thought you said he didn't have a facebook account.” Grantaire is huddled up on his sofa with his legs tucked up against his chest, almost as if he's in hiding, although he doesn't know what he's hiding from since he's all alone in his flat _like he wanted to be_. “Also, don't think I've forgiven you, you traitor.”

“What?” Eponine sounds, understandably, confused. (Grantaire is not in an understanding mood though. He has his laptop open to his facebook page and his relationship status is getting steadily more likes by the second.)

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire hisses, clutching the phone so tightly that his fingertips go white. “Who else would I be talking about?” He ignores Eponine as she mutters something that being all that he talks about these days. “ _Enjolras_ , you said he doesn't have a facebook page.”

“He doesn't.”

“Yes, he does,” wails Grantaire for no discernable reason. “I'm in a relationship with it!”

Eponine's silence stretches and Grantaire just pokes woefully at the page in an attempt to figure out if it's real or not. (If he stretches out a finger and actually physically pokes the screen instead of using the mouse, well, he's not thinking clearly right now.) It is real. He's checked, multiple times.

“What you're trying to tell me,” says Eponine slowly, because even though she speaks fluent Grantaire, he has given her rather few clues as to what he's going on about this time. “Is that the wonderful, gorgeous if dense sex god you're half in love with—”

“I'm not in love with him!” Grantaire makes an alarmed squeak, but Eponine ignores him.

“–and thought you had ruined your relationship with has, in fact, not dumped you but declared your relationship public, not that it wasn't sickeningly so beforehand, and this is somehow upsetting you?”

“Yes!” says Grantaire, relieved that Eponine seems to be getting it.

“I see no disadvantages to this,” says Eponine. “So I am going to consider this my thanks and hang up on you now, Grantaire—”

“He didn't ask me first,” says Grantaire quickly and it's not until he says it that he realises that exactly what is bothering him. “He just. It just happened. Did you tell him to?”

“Wha—no, I did not tell your stupid moron of a boyfriend to make your relationship public on facebook," says Eponine, clearly growing more irritated by the second. Maybe it's because he ate her way through two tubs of her very expensive ice cream and hasn't even got a break-up to show for it.

“He didn't,” says Grantaire, because of course he has clicked the link and checked it and everything, and then had sat on the sofa and stared at the page which had literally just had Enjolras's name on and a photo that was clearly taken in Grantaire's flat using his laptop and his webcam because he can see his _own bloody bookcase_ in the background and Enjolras had made them friends and everything, and now Grantaire wants to punch his face all over again.

“Let me try again,” says Eponine. “The wonderful, gorgeous if dense sex god you're half in love with—”

“I am _not_ in love with him!”

“–you thought had dumped you went to your flat—”

“ _Broke_ in to my flat, behind my back with the help of my best friend.”

“—went to your flat, hacked into your computer and made himself facebook friends with you and declared you to be in a relationship without telling you any of this. Am I missing anything? Also, I've just received a text message I presume is related," says Eponine. "Marius is telling me that Enjolras uploaded his next video early."

"What," says Grantaire, who's still occasionally refreshing facebook like it'll change on him any second.

"Marius told me that Enjolras has uploaded his next video early. Maybe it's a gushy apology." Eponine sounds horrified at the very thought.

"Why would Enjolras apologise on their website? That's ridiculous, it would be sabotage to even let their viewers know that they have relationships outside of their porn fantasies."

"I don't know," says Eponine, and she is rapidly sounding annoyed at being the messenger owl. "But I presume it's a message for you, or why else would Marius would be telling me about gay porn?"

"Maybe he thinks you would appreciate it," says Grantaire, who excels at avoiding the real issue at hand, "Lots of women enjoy gay porn, or so I hear."

"What is that buzzing noise?”

“Erm. He's calling me right now,” says Grantaire, who has been steadily ignoring the vibrations next to his ear for the past five minutes.

“I'm hanging up,” says Eponine. “Go watch his stupid video, talk to him, make him see sense. He's the most stupid smart person I have ever met.”

“That's what I said!” says Grantaire, gratified that someone agrees with him on something at least. “No—wait, don't hang up!”

He's left with the sound of Eponine clicking her phone up and the persistent buzzing of his phone as Enjolras makes yet another call. (Doesn't he _know_ the rule about only being allowed three missed calls before having to give up and waiting a minimum of five minutes?)

Grantaire puts off the decision to talk to Enjolras by loading up the _Real (Big) Boys_ website instead. Sure enough, there is the new video on their homepage. It’s only ten minutes long, but it means that Enjolras must have gone to film it literally as soon as Grantaire had left for Eponine’s to have to ready and edited this quickly. Grantaire frowns; he’s not sure that running off to shoot porn is the first thing he would do if he’d just had the first large argument with a boyfriend given that _his_ reaction had been to hide and eat ice cream.

He’s also not sure that a masturbatory video released on the internet is the best way to appease said boyfriend.

The video loads, and for a moment Grantaire thinks that it’s buffering because the shot is just of the white sheets. Then Enjolras walks into shot, and Grantaire’s body reacts purely on a physical level because he is just so, so good-looking. On an emotional level, Grantaire curls up on himself because Enjolras could have any guy out there, literally even that bloke on the street who came up to them, and any of them would work better than Grantaire, who thinks that everything he’s trying to achieve with his life is futile.

Grantaire’s stomach lurches, because Enjolras is wearing Grantaire’s Christmas present on him. The waistcoat sits snug and stark against a white shirt, the tie is a scarlet slash against his throat and blends in seamlessly down under the waistcoat. There are dark grey trousers to match, and he looks _so good_ in formal wear. The cravat is wound around his head, covering his eyes.

“I just got home from a really pretentious party,” says Enjolras in the direction of the camera. “I can’t get out of these things – family, you know. I hate that feeling of being out of control. So today’s video is going to be a little experiment, and I’m going to try and open myself up more to that sort of thing.” He steps backward until the backs of his legs hit the bed and shuffles onto it. Grantaire watches him suspiciously, because he knows the scenario is made up, but the words are supposed to be for him.

It is absolutely not lost on Grantaire that Enjolras gets rid of everything except the waistcoat, tie and cravat in a striptease. Enjolras is a professional, which means he has the skill to do things like work his shirt off whilst leaving the waistcoat and tie on, and somehow make it look smooth and not like a girl fishing a bra out from beneath her clothing.

Enjolras slides his hands down the front of his chest and stops shy before he touches his cock. “No, no handjobs today.” He reaches under the pillow instead and pulls out the red leather cuffs that Grantaire got him, tugging them around his wrists.

Grantaire had maybe hoped that the first time those would be broken in, it would be between the two of them, and not between the two of them and anyone else on the internet who cared to watch. He wonders where this is going. The chain of the handcuffs go around the headpiece of the bed and Enjolras demonstrates how his hands are bound.

The sight of Enjolras, mostly naked and rolling on the bed whilst cuffed to it would normally be enough to have Grantaire furiously stroking himself down his pants but Grantaire just watches and waits. There’s got to be something else. “I promised something different, didn’t I? Well, I’m going to need a little bit of help for this one. I’m nervous already. I don’t like saying when I’m nervous, have you noticed?” (Of course Grantaire has.)

Off-screen, someone rolls on a fucking machine and positions it for Enjolras, pushing it half inside him as he squirms his hips down and draws his legs up and apart. “Let’s do this,” says Enjolras, and the machine whirs to life. It’s not a gentle motion to start, warming him up and getting him used to the length and girth of the dildo, and Enjolras starts as it thrusts inside him.

Grantaire’s had him like this, sprawled out across the bed and letting Grantaire control the pace, but not with the handcuffs, not with the _blindfold_. Grantaire has never once confused the fact that Enjolras is a masochist who likes to take cocks up the arse with the idea that he’s submissive because Enjolras is not, not in bed and not out of it.

Even with half his face obscured, Enjolras is expressive. He huffs, chest hitching, which changes to open mouthed pants when the machine speeds up, the dildo making wet noises as it thrusts into his arse whilst he can’t pull away. “This,” says Enjolras, biting his lip. “This is scary. Maybe only to me? I find it hard to trust people. Even now, I’ve got a machine on the other end.”

Humans don’t go so fast or so hard so continuously, and that becomes apparent really quickly as Enjolras arches his back. He can’t move his hips at all, or he’ll throw off the angle of the machine; he compensates by moving his upper half, tugging on the handcuffs and gasping when the cuffs stop him. His toes curl and his thighs tremble with the effort and he whimpers. There are red marks around his wrist from where he’s been pulling.

“What are you trying to say, Enjolras,” mutters Grantaire at his laptop and scrubbing at his face and trying to ignore his boner because this is just a really weird situation. “Why can’t you just come out and say it like a normal person instead of encoding it in a fucking porn video?” On screen, Enjolras’s neck cords are visible and he’s half shouting out loud now and even though his cock is lying limp across his stomach, it twitches and leaks occasionally

Enjolras curls his hands into fists as he yanks on the cuffs. “Enough,” he tries, but this is apparently a safeword scene because no one turns the machine off; instead, the machine blurs as it fucks Enjolras faster and he cries out. Grantaire has no idea how he has enough self-control to not just buck out of the way, but the clench in his jaw makes it clear he’s not going to. Instead, pained moans rock out of his throat and Grantaire watches as the telltale signs of a hands-free orgasm creeps its way up on him.

Turning his face to the side, Enjolras rubs his face against this bicep until the cravat comes loose, sliding up against his hair instead, and he looks _wrecked_. Another camera angle switches in to close up on his face and Grantaire can see the glossy tears welling up at the sides of his eyes, the way his eyelashes are clumping together as Enjolras gets brought to the height of his forced orgasm and screams his way through it.

Wetness spurts from his cock and pools in the dips of his abs, splatters against his waistcoat; Enjolras’s eyes fly open, blue and wide and glazed and he thrashes so hard that Grantaire thinks that he might pull his arms out of place for a moment. Finally, the moment passes as Enjolras slumps and writhes against the bed, whimpering as the fucking machine carries on working him into oversensitivity.

“Maybe–” Enjolras clears his throat and carries on, his voice raspy, occasionally shuddering, “Maybe I’ll find someone who’ll be good to me, and I can feel safe letting them do this to me.” The video fades to black.

The doorbell rings. “AHHH!” screams Grantaire, and drops the phone in a flail of arms. His heart thumps wildly in his chest as he scrabbles for the phone and presses answer before realising that it’s not another call from Enjolras (he apparently gave up after six), and stumbles to look through the peephole.

It's Enjolras.

Well, there's a chance it's not Enjolras. Grantaire is about 98% sure that's Enjolras's hair though, so he freezes and the doorbell rings again. Grantaire tiptoes back to the sofa—maybe he can just pretend he's not in and Enjolras will go away and Grantaire try and figure out his weird fucking cryptic porn message.

Instead, his door swings open.

“I'm not in!” blurts out Grantaire, panicking because he's already thrown all the cushions across the room which means that there's nothing to hide under. It's the only plausible explanation for why he throws himself onto the carpet and crouches behind his coffee table. It's made of glass.

Enjolras just _looks_ at him.

“I, er. Heh, I just dropped something,” says Grantaire, crawling back onto the sofa and brushing his knees off. “And it may have been my dignity. Please stop. I can't stand any more surprises today.” He curls into a ball in the corner of the sofa. He’s saving the rocking forwards and backwards and crying for later.

From behind his back, Enjolras pulls out a bouquet of roses, and thrusts it stoically at Grantaire. He just stares at it for a second. “I thought I said no more surprises,” says Grantaire weakly, which is of course when Enjolras produces the accompanying box of chocolates and sets them down on the coffee table.

“I didn't know what chocolates or flowers you like,” says Enjolras. His eyebrows pull together in a frown. “You didn't answer your phone when I called to ask.”

“Right,” says Grantaire. “Did it occur to you that when people don't answer your calls, all _six_ of them, it means that they don't want to talk to you?”

Enjolras mulls that over. “No?”

“Right,” says Grantaire again. “Right. Okay. Well, that's what it means. You learn something new every day!” He laughs a little hysterically.

“You don't like the flowers,” says Enjolras. “I can return them. I think? What do you like? You said your favourite colour is green. I can get you some green flowers.”

“Flowers do not come in green.”

“Oh.” Enjolras visibly deflates.

“Are you _stalking_ me?” demands Grantaire. “Did you somehow time your exact entrance to coincide with the end of that video?” If he sounds a little on edge, well, _he is_ and it is Enjolras’s fault so he can deal with it.

Enjolras has the grace to go pink and damn him, he’s not even unattractive when blushing to his roots. “We have, erm, stat programs? I can see your IP address when you log on.”

“You can–” Grantaire’s voice gets embarrassingly high. “You can see which videos I watch?” He’s being stupid; of course he can. Grantaire _works_ with such programs and Eponine spends half her life glued to theirs.

“I don’t – It’s not creepy stalker-y,” says Enjolras, which is of no use at all. “I use it to stalk all of our members equally!” That’s... that’s actually not much better.

Grantaire tries not to think of Enjolras poring over a computer screen, trying to see which of his videos Grantaire watches the most because there is only a limited amount of invaded privacy he can deal with and today has gone all sorts of overboard.

If there’s a spot inside him finding this flattering and warming, that’s because there is something not right with Grantaire. Nothing new there.

“What the fuck is this?” Grantaire leans over, grabs his open laptop and opens the facebook tab and swivels it around to face Enjolras.

Enjolras fiddles with the box of chocolates until they’re lined up exactly perpendicular to the coffee table. “I’m not very good with speaking on the spot when it comes to you. I thought you would like it. You don't like it? I can delete it,” says Enjolras, reaching out for the laptop.

“NO!” Grantaire snatches it away and wraps his arms around it protectively. They stare at each other for a moment, Grantaire's heavy breathing sinking in the air around them. There’s a stretch of silence as Grantaire decides whether he’s going to kill Enjolras or not. “The flowers are very nice. Thank you,” he says eventually, and Enjolras seems to take this as permission to sit down.

“Are you still angry at me?”

“Am I—” Grantaire bites his lip. Thinking before speaking: he's going to try it. “I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at me.” He looks away. “It happens a lot. You should get used to it if you plan on sticking around.”

“I plan on sticking around,” says Enjolras, _damn him_. Grantaire looks back at him, and suddenly Enjolras is right next to him; Grantaire could have sworn he was on the other side of the sofa a second ago. His eyes are wide and blue and serious. “I would like to kiss you.”

“I want to kiss you too,” says Grantaire, hesitantly. He still hasn’t even managed to think through what that stupid video was supposed to mean. “But I need this kiss not to be something where you kiss me just because I’m upset and you think it’ll make me feel better slash forgive you.”

Enjolras nods firmly.

“I—okay,” whispers Grantaire, finally relenting as Enjolras leans forward and slides their lips together. Grantaire keeps his eyes open because that way, he's sure to spot the signs of Enjolras regretting it, or the look of pity, but nothing apart from a small, awkward smile crosses his face and Enjolras's hands brace against Grantaire's waist, warm and firm.

“I'm sorry.”

Grantaire gasps. “What was that? Was that an apology I heard?”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “I still mean what I said. But I _am_ sorry for hurting you. That, I didn't mean. You should come with me. To Las Vegas.”

Grantaire squints at him. “You're a fickle one,” he says lightly because he's not sure if he can take this back and forth. He’s so, so, so confused.

“When you see me there,” says Enjolras, “You'll understand. What I want to accomplish in this industry, with this production company. If you're there, you'll be able to believe that it's not a futile endeavour. You'll see.” His eyes are alight as he speaks and the thing is, Grantaire really can believe that he wants to change the face of the industry and he can see people being convinced by him. Grantaire makes a non-commital noise. That's not the thing that Grantaire finds difficult to believe in.

“Come with me.” Enjolras crawls into Grantaire's lap and leans close. “I want you there,” he says.

“That's not fair,” says Grantaire, because how is anyone supposed to deny Enjolras anything with his breath warm and humid in his ear? “We need to talk about how comfortable you are breaking into my things. Like my flat. And my computer. And my heart. Also, seriously, give me back my keys.”

“You'll see me doing what I love the most,” says Enjolras, wheedling, leading Grantaire's hands to slide up under his shirt, nuzzling his jawline. He's close enough that Grantaire can see the slight questioning, the minute amounts of uncertainty lurking in his eyes, and that's probably what convinces him the most. Grantaire's not so befuddled to not realise that this is what Enjolras does: convince people with everything he has. It just so happens that a good part of that is his sex appeal.

Grantaire doesn't like the idea that he is the thing that makes Enjolras doubt himself, because Enjolras doesn't do self-doubt, and Grantaire _does_ ; he'll do what he can to stop Enjolras from falling down that hole _._ “I thought I'd already seen you doing what you love the most,” he says hoarsely, because he'd give humour an attempt even if he's dying.

Enjolras slides down Grantaire's thigh. “You'll see me in a tux.”


	14. Chapter 14

Las Vegas is like London on acid.

For all its bustle and hustle, London has many a rule and regulation, timeless traditions and eccentricities borne out of history. Les Vegas has... cheap electricity. At least, so Grantaire assumes, because every other building is bedecked with more lights than his eyes can handle when they drive through it several days before the awards ceremony.

They’re piled into a taxi minivan big enough to hold all of the _Real (Big) Boys_ plus Grantaire and their luggage, and Grantaire is the only one who spends the journey pressed to the window. “It’s all fake,” Enjolras says once they get to the hotel room, “Much like the porn industry. It looks sleek and smooth and underneath is just bright lights and getting pubic hair stuck in your teeth.” Grantaire laughs at his terrible analogy, and takes some pictures of the view out of their balcony as Enjolras goes for a quick shower.

“Can I join you?” Grantaire asks a couple of minutes later, peeling off his aeroplane-rumpled clothes and dropping them in a heap on the floor as he opens the door to the bathroom.

Enjolras grins, and shuffles forward to make room for him in the gleaming bathtub. “You may wash my hair for me,” he says generously, planting a kiss on Grantaire’s cheek.

Grantaire does. Enjolras leans back into his touch, his back hot against Grantaire’s chest, and he feels like a mere wisp of a thing as he purrs in his arms. Grantaire lightly scratches at his scalp, and it somehow turns into light tugging; Enjolras rubs his arse against Grantaire’s crotch, and he hesitantly pulls harder. “...You _really_ like that.”

“Yesss,” hisses Enjolras as Grantaire fists all of that pretty blond hair into one hand and pulls him backward and up until he’s precarious on his toes in the slippery bathtub. His other hand curls around Enjolras’s hip to stop him from toppling over as Grantaire thrusts forward shallowly into the slick dip of where arse meets thigh. Enjolras tries to grind harder against him but he can’t get the leverage, which is deliberate on Grantaire’s part. They haven’t talked about this, they’re in the shower and don’t have protection so Grantaire’s not risking anything.

“Get on with it,” growls Enjolras as Grantaire mouths at his neck, and Grantaire huffs out a laugh because that’s just typical – Enjolras is fine with teasing foreplay when _he’s_ the one doing it.

“All right, all right,” mutters Grantaire, easing Enjolras back down so that he can use one hand to jerk Enjolras off. Enjolras moves to brace himself against the wall, all the better to grind his arse against Grantaire, and Grantaire presses his palm against the taut lines of muscle in his back, leaving scratches that go red under the hot shower spray and peppering kisses over them afterwards.

The shower sex is quick and sloppy and more of a release of tension more than anything else. Enjolras is close to coming, and Grantaire knows how to tell when that’s about to happen now, because Enjolras starts tensing underneath him. He yanks the shower head off the wall, accidentally spraying the bathroom floor and giving approximately no fucks because then he aims it at Enjolras’s hard, swollen cock and Enjolras cries out in surprise, jerking at the overstimulation.

“ _Shit_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras gasps, squirming as Grantaire dances the showerhead up and down his cock. “What are you doing? I’m stealing that. F-for a video. Nnn _nnrgh_.”

“I can’t believe you’re thinking of a video at a time like this,” grouses Grantaire, squeezing and biting down on the visible cordons in Enjolras’s neck. Enjolras moans wetly and shudders in his arms as Grantaire gives him what will be a spectacular love bite and splatters the wall as he comes.

The showerhead goes back on the wall and Enjolras gets soft wet kisses as Grantaire holds him up, gently stroking his heaving ribs. “Not too much?” Grantaire asks quietly, because he never knows.

“Not at all,” says Enjolras languidly, running a finger lightly around one of his nipples. “Give me a moment to bask in the afterglow, and then I’ll finish you off.”

They end up late meeting the others for dinner. They tumble to a halt in the Hard Rock Hotel lobby, Grantaire’s hair still damp, and glance around wildly for the others. Combeferre waves at them from where he’s standing with Feuilly. “Don’t worry, you’re not the only ones who got distracted by the nice hotel rooms,” he says dryly, tipping his head to gesture behind them, where Courfeyrac and Jehan are spilling into the lobby with the same harried expression. Enjolras goes pink at the tips of his ears, and Grantaire smothers a grin because the fact that he can make Enjolras, who deals with sex all day for a living, blush over a little bit of shower sex? Feels really good.

It turns out that there is a whole lot more to this awards business than Grantaire had thought. They’re technically here for the whole of the Adult Entertainment Expo, which is apparently four days of exhibits and talking and schmoozing and parties, with the ceremony right at the end, and the dinner is to consolidate their battle plans. They’re pinning a lot of hope for new publicity on the fact that Combeferre has a spot on one of the panels – because like any expo, there are seminars and panels, even if they are on things like the legalities of S&M play and how to host a good house orgy – in which he’ll be talking about starting up a new business from scratch.

In the meantime, Feuilly’s going to be trying to get sponsors from some of the manufacturing stalls, having come into porn from being a product tester, Courfeyrac and Jehan will be networking via the party circuit and Enjolras is going to be working the floor. Grantaire is exhausted just from listening to their plans. He forgets, sometimes, that these people also run a business as well as take on all the various roles of actor, director, producer and everything else. He makes a mental note to send Eponine something extra nice for handling all the business part of it so that he can just sit and draw and code all day long.

Enjolras shoots Grantaire several sidelong looks during dinner, and Grantaire pretends to not see as he concentrates on his burger instead. As they finally settle back and just enjoy their greasy, greasy goodness, Enjolras puts his hand on Grantaire’s knee and asks in a low voice, “Are you regretting coming with me yet?”

Grantaire squeezes his hand back and smiles encouragingly. “And miss out on the ridiculous hotel room and the shower sex? Not a chance.”

~

“I thought you said last night that you three were going to be wearing black tie,” Grantaire says faintly, looking Jehan up and down when they meet up after breakfast.

Jehan is wearing most of a tuxedo, right down to sock suspenders and a tie clip, but no trousers to go with it. Instead, there’s just a black jock strap edged in silver that matches his tie. (The jock strap fits tightly enough that Grantaire can tell that Jehan does indeed wear a chastity device, and he is just very glad that he is dating someone who doesn’t care one iota if he checks other people out because he’s having a difficult time not staring.)

“Well, our ties _are_ black,” says Courfeyrac, who is wearing nothing but a pair of poured-on leather trousers and indeed a black bow tie.

Combeferre makes an apologetic face at him. “We forget sometimes that you don’t automatically know all of the codes we have on things.” Combeferre is wearing a full tux apart from the shirt; it’s actually very effective.

“Why aren’t you dressed like that?” asks Grantaire. Enjolras snorts - he has his hair pulled back in a ponytail today, and is wearing an actual suit, though a normal one as opposed to a tuxedo.

“Enjolras and Combeferre appeal to the stuck up stiffs, the corporate backers, the money men; Jehan and Courf to the kinky freaks who work for them,” says Feuilly, and at least Grantaire was expecting him to be in skinny jeans and a t-shirt stretched tight over his chest. Between them all, they’re actually a really good advertisement for tasteful hot man porn, which is why they’re also holding about a hundred business cards each on them, Courfeyrac’s stuck around his waistline like dollar bills.

“And you?” asks Grantaire.

“Feuilly appeals to everyone,” says Jehan like it’s obvious. Which, Grantaire supposes, it is. The other guests of the hotel are staring; Jehan waves at them all. “I’m going to need to get fucked so badly after this,” he says happily. “The attention is driving me horny.”

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire.

“Don’t worry,” says Enjolras, “It only goes downhill from here.”

Grantaire hadn’t believed him. He had foolishly thought that a convention where really hot people walked around in revealing clothes could only be a fun time. He was wrong. So very wrong.

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire in helpless terror as he watches an elderly woman wearing only a fishnet bodysuit stalk James Deen. They’re three steps inside the entrance.

“Many expo attendees take the context of porn to mean that they can get up in the most revealing of costumes,” says Enjolras, taking Grantaire by the elbow and steering him away as security descends upon the woman to inform her that there is a fine line between revealing clothing and public indecency, and she has unfortunately crossed it.

Someone walks up to Combeferre and runs a hand across his abs, then just meanders off again.

“Aren’t you glad I’m not dressed like that now?” asks Enjolras dryly.

“Is that going to happen to you all day?” asks Grantaire, who can’t even imagine how weird it would be to have just one stranger come up and fondle him.

“Pretty much,” says Combeferre. “Jehan is a much braver man than I.” He waves at them and splits off toward the panel area. Courfeyrac and Jehan have already split to go and find the bar and maybe woo some of the porn stars for endorsements or cameos and Feuilly is in a different building altogether for the Novelty Expo.

Grantaire blinks. “Now what?”

“Now, we go talk to people.”

Enjolras is known for the things that he does on the mattress and whilst some of those said things are really very impressive, it means that Grantaire has been missing out on a crucial part of Enjolras all this time. They flit from stall to stall, Grantaire picking up leaflets and samples and Enjolras networking like a pro. He has an honest-to-God business card holder he’s using to store all the contacts he gets as he talks to porn toy manufacturers, website hosts, other porn companies.

Grantaire gets handed a sachet of watermelon flavoured lube, and Enjolras talks to someone about swapping promo space on their website. Grantaire pulls Enjolras back before he gets his foot stomped on by two trans pornstars walking past in platform stilettos and Enjolras promises to feature someone’s new sex toy in one of their next videos. Grantaire wriggles uncomfortably as he watches the gaggles of middle-aged men trying to get autographs from pornstars half their age, and Enjolras’s face goes carefully blank as someone mistakes Grantaire for one of them.

“I’m only into blokes, sorry,” says Grantaire carefully, wishing he’d pulled on a smarter shirt or brushed his hair properly so that he doesn’t look so scruffy.

“Oh.” The guy’s face falls, and he edges away from Grantaire like the only way he’s willing to get that close to another guy’s junk is if there’s a vagina between them. “Well. She’s still hot, right?”

“I guess?” says Grantaire, edging away for completely different reasons. It’s not like he’s watched a lot of straight porn, so he has no idea. The truth is, a lot of the girls here look better made up and edited and in front of the camera. Here, most of them just look bored or sad or, worse, like they really wish people would stop pinching parts of them in public.

“I’m hungry,” declares Enjolras, his face pale with anger as he slides his arm around Grantaire’s waist. “Let’s go and grab some lunch.”

They walk off after that, pushing through the throngs of people and pacing until Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire’s waist is slightly less painful. “Are you all right?” asks Grantaire, stroking back a lock of Enjolras’s hair that has escaped his ponytail.

“Am I all right? Are _you_ all right?” asks Enjolras explosively, angry all over again. “That horrible sod, insinuating that you’re some sort of mindless groupie who tries to violate a working professional without their consent.”

“Well,” says Grantaire, aiming for humour, “I sort of am, aren’t I? Since I’m dating a pornstar.”

“That’s entirely different,” snaps Enjolras defensively, “You didn’t try to molest me before even introducing yourself. You’re funny and intelligent and adorable and _have some respect about my goddamn profession_.” He breaks off into heaving breaths; people around them stare as he aggressively compliments Grantaire, and Grantaire pulls him into a hug.

Enjolras entwines himself around Grantaire and lets him rub his back soothingly. Grantaire pulls out his ponytail and runs his fingers through the long hair, brushing it back to give Enjolras a soft kiss because he has the most ridiculous, bestest boyfriend in the entire world. “And this is why I’m asking if _you’re_ all right,” says Grantaire. These are Enjolras’s colleagues bearing the brunt of it when someone decides to try and cop a feel, his friends, even. It could easily be him if he weren’t dressed up as the business end of the company.

“I hate it here,” whispers Enjolras. “This is why I need to change it all.”

And finally, Grantaire understands.


	15. Chapter 15

The Expo passes in a whirl of half-naked hot people and free samples until Grantaire wonders why he bothered to bring condoms at all. Enjolras has been asked to sign photographs for six different people despite the overwhelmingly straight male demographic of the public attendees and they get an emergency call from Jehan at 3am, screaming about Courfeyrac getting into a fight over his honour.

Courfeyrac has to carefully apply face make-up the next day to cover the spectacular bruise blooming over his jaw and Jehan keeps skittishly touching him; Enjolras spends at least half an hour pacing, trying to decide if they should skip the party the next night in order to get in some rest. Grantaire gets mistaken as a creepy male fan another two times, Combeferre almost finds himself kidnapped into a three-way shoot with two female pornstars and Feuilly eventually decides to skip the last two hours of the convention because his arse _really hurts_ given the number of people who have pinched it as they walked past.

For dinner on the last night, they gather in Combeferre and Feuilly’s hotel room and order a small mountain of Chinese take-away and collapse, groaning, over the lush hotel carpet. “My balls,” says Courfeyrac with relief, massaging them through the baggy, ratty sweatpants he’s pulled on because there are _some_ downsides to ridiculously tight trousers.

“Greasy, greasy goodness,” says Feuilly, inhaling a box of deep-fried wontons with abject relief. “Not a single salad in sight.”

“What?” asks Grantaire. “I thought you liked salads.”

“I hate salads. But you’ve got to be careful with your figure if you’re going to be displaying it all day, so salads.”

“A burger or two isn’t going to make you put weight on that quickly,” says Grantaire confused, because he hasn’t noticed Enjolras taking similar pains with his diet.

“They don’t.” Courfeyrac chips in. “But it does make us bloat for a bit, and the trousers I’ve been wearing have been tight enough as it is.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras.

“Enjolras is a freak of nature,” grumbles Jehan. “He doesn’t even have to exercise for that body of his.”

~

The next day, they get the morning off. Grantaire takes the time to sort through the immense pile of leaflets and samples he got, and Enjolras spends it in back-to-back meetings he’s managed to get with various other people in the porn industry, giving them each an hour of his time as he gets steadily more caffeinated sitting at the same booth in the Hard Rock Cafe.

“This wasn’t half as fun as I thought it would be,” Grantaire says to Eponine over Skype, flopping on the bed and making multi-flavoured condoms fly everywhere.

“What were you expecting?” she asks, not even looking at him as she plays their cat game. Grantaire can’t help but think that she isn’t taking his whining particularly seriously.

“It was…” Grantaire struggles to put his thoughts into words, and grimaces eventually. “It was like seeing me out in public. It was really… really terrifying.”

Eponine looks up and frowns at him.

“It’s all dudes who want their favourite pornstar to acknowledge them. They watch porn and they think they know the actors behind them and they go up to them and ask for signatures on posters and stuff and it’s weird and creepy and I’m one of them, Eponine.”

“No, you’re not,” says Eponine, immediately dismissive.

“I’m dating a pornstar,” Grantaire says pointedly. “It doesn’t get much more fantasy fulfilment than that. I wanked off to him before he ever knew I existed.”

“If you’d seen Enjolras in the street,” says Eponine, “would you have stopped to say hello?”

Grantaire thinks about it. “No,” he admits. “I probably would have just stared at him when he thought I wasn't looking, like he says all the other weirdo fans do."

"Did he say that, or are you putting words in his mouth again?" Eponine is trying to scowl, but sounds amused anyway.

Grantaire waves two fingers at her. "I'm paraphrasing, alright? He'd never use the word 'weirdo'. Does it say something about me, do you think?"

"Does what say what?"

"Does it say something about me that I'm dating someone who has sex with other people for a living?"

Eponine squints at him. "I think it says something about you that you're _asking_ that," she says and then holds up a hand. "No, don't wallow at me. This is a conversation you need to have with him, not me." Grantaire pouts.

The room door opens and Enjolras waves at him. "I'm back. Hello, Eponine."

"And that's my cue," says Eponine, "Enjolras, Grantaire wants to ask you something. I'll see you guys later." She promptly ends the call on them, and Grantaire swears under his breath.

“What is it?” asks Enjolras, loosening his tie with a sigh and dropping his file onto the bed.

“N-nothing,” stutters Grantaire. He’ll ask Enjolras later, perhaps, after the awards ceremony and the after-party, when he didn’t have to worry about Enjolras being awkwardly stuck next to him with hours to go.

Enjolras stretches and gives him a quick kiss. “We should get ready. Do you need a shower?”

Grantaire shakes his head and Enjolras hops in without him as Grantaire pulls on his suit. He doesn’t actually own that much formal wear, and the only black suit he owns is the same one he wears to funerals. The clinging feeling of somberness makes Grantaire frown at himself in the mirror, right up until he sees Enjolras walk out. Grantaire’s mouth goes dry. He is incredibly glad that he's not working this event and no one expects him to be saying anything because he suspects that he won’t be able to form coherent words any time he looks over at Enjolras.

“What do you think?” asks Enjolras, smoothing down his tux. It’s charcoal grey and fitted because apparently porn pays _very well_ and emphasises his trim waist. Grantaire squeaks as he watches Enjolras's hands travel south.

“Do we have time for me to peel you back out of that?” asks Grantaire, stepping forward as if mesmerised and running his hands across the smooth lapels.

“Unfortunately not,” says Enjolras, catching his wrists before they stray. Grantaire pouts, and strokes his fingers through Enjolras’s hair instead. It’s soft and fluffy and still warm from the hairdryer. “Stop that,” says Enjolras but with no real heat.

“I want to come all over your face,” says Grantaire, because he appreciates that Enjolras is someone he can say these sorts of things to, and also because he does want to, quite a lot.

Enjolras leans him and gives him a kiss, rubbing his thumbs over Grantaire’s hips. “How about you come in my mouth now, and then you can come over my face after the ceremony?”

“I suppose I’ll settle,” says Grantaire loftily, and Enjolras laughs, pushing Grantaire backward by the hips until he lands on the bed with a bounce.

That’s certainly one way to make new memories of this suit.

~

Grantaire is not expecting an actual red carpet rolled out onto the street and porn stars bedecked out in Oscar worthy dresses and tuxedos. "You weren't kidding about this being a really big event, huh," he says faintly as he stares. Thankfully, the windows of the sleek hired black car are blacked-out, and they are waiting their turn as porn stars and producers get out ahead of them. He doesn’t even watch much straight porn and he recognises a few faces. (Other faces are significantly harder to place because he’s not exactly watching it for the _faces_.)

Tugging his suit straight, Grantaire is wishing that he’d taken the time to better iron his shirt instead of letting Enjolras suck him off, but thankfully no one is particularly interested in him. (Also, it's a very brief wish, because there is no such thing as regretting a blowjob from Enjolras.) As they all get immediately pulled up into interviews by the side of the red carpet, Grantaire braces himself for hanging around uselessly, pretending he knows what he’s doing, but Enjolras sweeps him up alongside them and Grantaire gets to watch him sweet talk with his clothes on.

Grantaire had planned to tune out what Enjolras says in favour of people-watching, with a particular emphasis on Enjolras-watching, but it turns out that it’s quite difficult tuning Enjolras out. “–is the default porn that teenage boys find when they look it up, no wonder they have all these preconceptions when they have sex for the first time,” Enjolras says. “I understand, of course, we aren’t their parents or their teachers, but we ought to be aware of our role in forming the sexual ideas of young people.”

“But the overwhelming demographic of people who watch porn are adults,” insists the interviewer and from Enjolras’s raised eyebrow, Grantaire already knows exactly what he’s going to say.

“That’s even worse!” Enjolras makes a face. “We can almost excuse teenagers being misinformed and ignorant but an _adult_ who should know better? We definitely aren’t doing them any favours then.”

The interview moves on: “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

“Seriously?” asks Enjolras, deadpan, pointedly looking at his arm around Grantaire’s waist. Grantaire goes red. Surely it can’t be good for business to be openly attached.

“What sort of effect on your personal relationships does your choice of career have?”

Enjolras blinks at that one. Grantaire holds his breath; Enjolras is great at answering all the questions except the ones that relate to him personally. “None. I mean, no more than yours might, I presume, when you go home after a long and tiring day and your significant other might want sex but you’re too tired or not in the mood.”

Grantaire snorts. He doesn’t mean to; he’s trying to be a great trophy boyfriend, but he just can’t hold that one in. “Don’t believe him,” he says, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “he has _never_ come over and told me that he is too tired for sex. It’s great.” He adds a wink, surprising a laugh out of the nice young man, and is slightly gratified to see Enjolras turn pink at the tips of the ears.

The interview wraps up after that, with the interviewer noting down Grantaire’s first name. He’s clearly itching to ask him more questions about being the boyfriend of a pornstar, but Enjolras leads him away quite firmly. Enjolras casts a look around. “I think we should be good. There aren’t that many LGBTQ+ sites and magazines here and we’ve spread out to cover them. Do you want to head on in?”

Grantaire’s brain is clearly lagging, because he turns to Enjolras and says, “Did you just openly name me as your boyfriend to _Handjob magazine_?”

“Did you just tell the same magazine about my insatiable sex drive?” asks Enjolras.

“Shit.” Grantaire blinks. Oh – right. He did that. Enjolras smiles at him though, so it can’t be that awful. Right? “Sorry. Sorry. I’ll just keep my mouth shut from now on. You can go do more interviews if you need to, don’t let me stop you.”

“It’s fine, Grantaire,” says Enjolras, steering them both inside. “There really aren’t any others I wanted to catch.”

A complimentary glass of champagne is pressed into each of their hands and Grantaire stares at it for a very long moment and then cracks and downs it in one. He regrets it almost immediately.

“Do you want mine?” asks Enjolras. “I don’t like champagne.”

Grantaire closes his eyes briefly. “I really shouldn’t,” he says faintly as they shuffle sideways into their seats. He takes it and drinks it anyway.

The auditorium fills up slowly, Feuilly joining them next, then Courfeyrac, Jehan and finally Combeferre. Grantaire has strangers on his other side, until he realises that he actually knows who Cytheria is, and quells a very bizarre urge to congratulate her on her ability to squirt like an exploded pipe even if vaginas make him a little queasy.

The awards themselves are a bit of a blur for Grantaire. They’re far away enough that Grantaire’s finding it difficult to recognise some of the stars (“They all look different with actual clothes on,” he complains at one point, “how am I supposed to tell them apart without being able to see their most defining characteristics?”), the clips they show from the productions aren’t even explicit and _really_ , what is the point of that?

“Big Wet Asses 22,” Grantaire whispers in horror, because there are bad porn movie names, and then there’s _really dire_ porn movie names. “ _What_.”

“It’s a best-selling series,” mutters Enjolras as Lexi Belle chokes up on stage through an acceptance speech, talking about how great it is to get the recognition for having five litres of lube poured into her arse in one day. “It is, actually, a really great example of the horrifically low standards of porn.”

“How did anyone think that name was good enough for one sequel, let alone _twenty-one_ of them?”

“It tells you everything you want to know about the film, doesn’t it? Why would you go for originality?”

Asa Akira announces _Big Wet Butts 5_ ’s nomination for best Anal Scene and Grantaire glances around to see Enjolras bracing for the question he can already see coming. Grantaire does not disappoint. “What’s the difference between _Big Wet Asses_ and _Big Wet Butts_?”

“There’s twenty-two _Asses_ and only five _Butts_ ,” says Enjolras, deadpan, and Grantaire very nearly loses it right there and then and has to clench his hand around Enjolras’s because the alternative is erupting with laughter. He shuts his eyes incredulously and opens them again to see if anything changes. It doesn’t; everyone else around them is still clapping like this is the real Oscars and he’s not sure he can take it all this seriously.

“I told you it was a bore,” says Enjolras, squeezing back.

Grantaire shakes his head minutely. “This is the funniest shit I have watched since Courfeyrac reenacted that time he came in Marius’s eye.” Enjolras turns to squint at him and ends up smiling helplessly. That pretty much does it for Grantaire.

The rest of the awards ceremony sees Grantaire giving a scathing running commentary out of the corner of his mouth on the titles, the productions, on anything that catches his eye and Enjolras occasionally elbowing him to shush him – but when Grantaire glances over, Enjolras has a hand smoothed over his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh, so he carries on.

There are more categories than Grantaire had ever dreamed of, and after the first break, Feuilly makes Grantaire swap seats with Enjolras so that he can hear the commentary too. Grantaire swears he sees Cytheria eyeing Enjolras up with interest when he sits down next to her, and rather desperately says, “Hey _babe_ , do you need anything else?” and Enjolras’s head jerks up at the word ‘babe’ and _oh god_ Las Vegas is rubbing off on him, he’s never said ‘babe’ before in his life and he is never, ever going to do it again.

“Erm,” says Enjolras, looking very puzzled. “No, I’m good, thanks.”

“Right, good, okay,” says Grantaire, wincing. “Erm. Is _Does This Dick Make My Ass Look Big_ seriously going to be the winner of Clever Title of the Year? Doesn’t that just imply that the dick is kind of small?”

By the time they get to the Production awards, even Grantaire is running out of steam (“I can’t believe they did a Star Wars porn parody and it doesn’t involve lightsabre/cock-fighting. Where are my extendable glowing green cocks?”), and even the rest of the audience seems to have lost patience by the time the Manufacturer awards roll around. Grantaire rests his cheek on Enjolras’s shoulder. “I have a sort of small present...y thing for you.”

Enjolras turns until his hair tickles Grantaire’s nose, and he pretends to nom on it.

“A small present-y thing?” Enjolras repeats, amused, flicking his hair out of the way. He shrugs his shoulder lightly, as if trying to make Grantaire behave himself but _come on_ , he’s been in here for over three hours, clapping politely as if _This Is Not Avatar XXX_ is the funniest name _ever_ for a porn parody.

“Yeah. Sort of.” Grantaire doesn’t _entirely_ know how this is going to go down with Enjolras, but he pulls a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket anyway. “You know how you just did your three month check?”

“Yes, of course. I’m clean. I’m always clean, if you’re worried.” Enjolras and everyone else too, in fact, gets to get checked up for STIs regularly. It’s a matter of course more than anything else because accidents can happen even if they’re careful, and they have a _lot_ of sex between them.

“Yeah, well, so am I,” says Grantaire, holding the piece of paper that says so, the one that he’s been holding on to for the whole of this trip, waiting for a good time to bring it up. He slides it onto Enjolras’s lap; Enjolras blinks at it. “You know, just case you wanted to do something about that? You don’t have to, at all, but. Yeah.”

Enjolras discreetly unfolds it as some balding guy up on stage waxes lyrical about the fantastic springiness of Fleshlights. (Grantaire is trying to tune him out because he keeps using the word _moist_ , yuck.) He reads it over, and carefully folds it back up again. “Is this your way of asking if we can do it bareback?”

“Yeeeees?” With only Enjolras’s profile visible, it’s hard for Grantaire to get a read on what he’s feeling. “Well, it’s on the table, more than anything else. Like I said, you don’t have to do anything about it at all.”

Enjolras turns his head until their noses almost brush, and growls lightly down at Grantaire. “And you decided to hold on to this information until we are literally stuck in a crowd of almost a thousand people for at least another hour and a half, and then an after-party?”

Grantaire sneaks a hand up Enjolras’s thigh. “Yeeeeees?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, I'm sorry. There's another chapter (and an epilogue), mostly because this got long... *failpot*


	16. Chapter 16

Perhaps Grantaire really had mistimed his little revelation because now he is really fucking horny and doesn’t stand a chance of getting his boyfriend naked for at least another four hours. There are the rest of the awards, then the closing speeches and then the mingling, oh _god_ Grantaire had not thought through how much mingling there was going to be.

Then they stand a chance of getting out of the auditorium to face another wall of paparazzi and photoshoots round two, although he has to admit that he enjoys the way Enjolras flips his hair back and smoulders at the camera, and _after that_ they tumble back to their hotel room, but only for long enough to change clothes and grab a quick bite to eat and then they’re back out again for the after-party.

Nightclubs are not really Grantaire’s thing, mostly because nightclubs include lots of people and _people_ are not Grantaire’s thing. He nurses a vodka-redbull because it stands a chance of helping him stay awake, and watches the beautiful people writhe around him.

All the tuxedos and long dresses have come off and everyone is dressed in slutty, slutty scraps of clothing barely stretched over hips and boobs and from the looks of it, Jehan and Courfeyrac are probably going to partake in an orgy tonight. Feuilly has got himself into an impromptu pole dancing contest in the corner and even Combeferre has lost his shirt.

Grantaire is in a t-shirt and jeans, and the only person wearing more clothes than him is Enjolras, who has a blazer thrown on over his t-shirt. “You don’t like dancing?” yells Grantaire, taking the excuse to shimmy close to Enjolras.

“I hate dancing,” grumbles Enjolras, sliding his hands up Grantaire’s waist.

“You’re supposed to be networking,” says Grantaire with a grin because Enjolras looks to be working up to some epic proportions of snuggling and pouting. “If you’re just going to stay right here all evening, we might as well go back to the hotel.”

“I know,” says Enjolras. “I should – go mingle.” He pulls away from Grantaire’s side slowly, like taffy, and pulls his blazer straight. Grantaire sees him sigh more than he hears it. Enjolras gets as far as approaching someone and trying to talk to them before they slide their hands around his hip and squeeze his arse; it’s almost comical how quickly Enjolras sidles out of that conversation.

The next one only goes mildly better. He tries a couple of male pornstars this time, huge hulking guys who look like they lift weights with their neck and stand around comparing the size of their penises. The club is loud and packed and Enjolras has to lean in close to make himself heard; the other dude puts his hands up and steps back in the universal straight male ‘no homo’ signal and Grantaire sees Enjolras’s face shut down.

The third conversation is with a middle-aged couple who tries to hit on him. Grantaire can see him shake his head and point over to Grantaire, probably explaining how he has a boyfriend already. Grantaire waves one hand when they look at him and they try to gesture for him to come over. He tries to not laugh at the sight of Enjolras trying to explain that no, that _didn't_ mean they were available for a foursome, and feels a little flattered that they offered. That’s probably the alcohol talking.

Enjolras gives up after that, stalking through the crowd back to Grantaire’s side and sulking. “Poor baby,” says Grantaire, very much amused even though he does let Enjolras curl up into him and tuck his head onto Grantaire’s shoulder. “People just don’t want to talk at a nightclub, Enjolras.”

“Jehan and Courfeyrac always come out of the club nights with lots of useful contacts,” says Enjolras. “I don’t want them to have to do it all.”

“I’m not entirely sure they do it by trying to engage people in conversation,” says Grantaire, looking over at where they’ve got a pornstar sandwiched between them on the dancefloor and are muttering things that are most definitely not ‘Have you thought about unionising?’

Grantaire tugs Enjolras toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get a bit of fresh air.” He only means to pop out for a bit but after they get their re-entry wristbands, they find themselves walking down the Strip.

It’s warm in Las Vegas, practically summer weather for England, which means that there’s a pleasant breeze instead of the usual cripplingly frosty wind and dripping chilled sweat that usually greets Grantaire after a night out. Their hands brush as they walk and Enjolras takes a hold of Grantaire’s and doesn’t let go of it again. They feel like any other tourist couple walking down the street, although perhaps not quite as drunk nor, er, married, and Grantaire can feel Enjolras relaxing the further they get from the nightclub.

“I just feel bad,” says Enjolras quietly as they meander and enjoy the ostentatious lights. “I don’t want them to think that I’m leaving them to do all the dirty work.”

“You aren’t,” says Grantaire. “The reason you split it up so that they worked the party scene and you worked the corporate scene is because that’s what you’re all good at.”

“I know that,” says Enjolras with a grimace. “Logically, I do. But I feel like I should at least try.”

Grantaire snorts. “You tried, Enjolras, trust me, I just watched you try very hard.”

They exchange a look, and spontaneously burst into laughter. “It was so bad,” groans Enjolras.

“So bad,” agrees Grantaire. “Your face when that couple invited me over.”

Enjolras blushes. “I’m used to me getting propositioned. I just didn’t think that you–”

“–would be remotely attractive to anyone?” finishes Grantaire dryly.

“No!” Enjolras peers over at Grantaire and squeezes his hand. Grantaire squeezes it back to show that he was just joking. “You know what I mean. You’re not in the industry; you didn’t sign up for all the sleazy parts that go with it. I knew what I was getting myself into when I started the company.”

“Even the nightclubbing?” quips Grantaire.

“Even the nightclubbing,” sighs Enjolras as they turn around and start walking back.

“Let’s just go back to the hotel room,” says Grantaire when they near the club. “The others are having fun, they won’t mind if you take one night off.”

“I know they won’t,” groans Enjolras, “That’s why it’s so hard to go anyway.”

“So don’t,” says Grantaire, and if there’s a little bit of a wheedle in his voice, well, he has a vested interest in not going back into the club. “We can just go back and have a night to ourselves.” He wraps his arms around Enjolras and nuzzles his nose into Enjolras’s hair. “And we can make out and have cuddles and backrubs,” he says, knowing he’s tempting Enjolras by the way he sighs and sinks into Grantaire’s embrace, “Or alternatively, hot, kinky sex with no condoms and multiple orgasms, whichever you feel like when we get back.”

Enjolras laughs, and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s lips. “Alright, fine,” he says, shaking his head. “You had me at backrubs.”

~

The doors ping open and they almost miss their floor because they’re slowly making out like post-coital teenagers in the back of the lift. “Shit!” Grantaire sticks a hand out just in time to block the doors before they close again, and they tumble down the corridor to their room. Grantaire’s already shot off a quick text to Combeferre and Enjolras looks much happier now he’s not faced with the prospect of yelling himself hoarse at drunk people all night.

They tumble sideways onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and Enjolras hums when Grantaire’s stubble scratches him and Grantaire rolls on top of him, trying to nuzzle his five o’clock shadow across every inch of skin he can reach. They end up rolling around the bed, giggling like schoolkids as they wrestle the clothes off each other, Enjolras tucking his cold toes behind the back of Grantaire’s knee and making him gasp, Grantaire retaliating by pinching his nipple.

“I can’t decide whether I want to try out all the samples I got this weekend or forego the condoms completely,” says Grantaire eventually as Enjolras sprawls across his chest like an enormous cat.

“You don’t think you’ve got it in you to do both?” asks Enjolras, smouldering at Grantaire. It’s a very good smoulder – Grantaire has wanked off to it more than a few times.

“Are you pulling your work moves on me?” Grantaire squeezes his arse.

Enjolras snorts. “I hope you’ve realised by now that I don’t have anything but work moves.” He trails a finger seductively down the dark hair under Grantaire’s belly button right down Grantaire’s half-hard cock to the tip... and then _pings_ it. Grantaire’s cock bobs up and down and Grantaire dissolves into helpless laughter.

“Enjolras, what are you doing?” Grantaire leans up on his elbows and presses wet, sloppy kisses across Enjolras’s face, feeling ridiculous and giddy and incredibly excited about having fun, silly, bareback sex with his stupidly hot boyfriend.

“I’m doing whatever I want,” says Enjolras, propping his chin on Grantaire’s hip and failing to hide his smirk. “No one lets me ping anyone’s cocks when we’re filming.”

Grantaire gurgles. “Oh my god, you’re going to be the death of me. Blissful orgasmic death.”

 And then, because Enjolras is never to be outdone in being predictable, he leans over and takes Grantaire into his mouth, his hot wet mouth where his tongue presses up against the underside of Grantaire and flicks over his tip.

Grantaire groans. “What did I say? Orgasmic death.” He can feel Enjolras smile around him as he goes back down again, lips dragging across Grantaire’s skin until Grantaire hits the back of his throat. Grantaire fists his hands in Enjolras's hair, partly to brush it back so that he can watch Enjolras with his cheeks hollowed and his eyelashes brushing the gentlest of kisses along Grantaire's skin, and partly just because he has a massive weakness for Enjolras's hair.

Enjolras pulls up and makes eye contact with Grantaire as he slides the tip of his tongue up and down the most sensitive part of Grantaire's cock until Grantaire clenches his eyes shut and falls backward, his forearm muscles trembling as he fights not to jerk Enjolras away. "Too much," he gasps.

"Liar," says Enjolras, but he does pause to press the softest of kisses right on Grantaire's tip. "If you want me to stop, say stop."

"St–" Grantaire bites his lip, because Enjolras is right, damnit it, he doesn't want him to stop but Grantaire doesn't have the pornstar-hardened self-control that Enjolras has and he is seriously going to come soon if Enjolras doesn't stop that.

There’s a sudden burst of the smell of fruit, and Grantaire blinks hazily down to see that Enjolras has opened one of the sample packets of lube they’d received, and is stretching himself open. If not for the smell, Grantaire wouldn't have even noticed because Enjolras doesn't break stride at all.

“Holy shit,” pants Grantaire, “Okay, okay. Stop. Enjolras, stop.”

Enjolras pulls back immediately, good as his word. “I thought you wanted to come all over my face?” He keeps stroking with just his finger and his thumb, which is just enough to keep Grantaire twitching.

“And I thought you wanted me to come inside your arse?”

“Oh, true,” says Enjolras, pulling his hand away. Grantaire moans, half from the loss of contact and half from overwhelming relief because he’s really bad at holding it in when he’s being edged. Enjolras climbs up Grantaire’s body, pressing little nips on his way up, leaving teethmarks and dents from his nails, until he’s straddling Grantaire’s waist.

Grantaire slides his hands up Enjolras’s thighs appreciatively. “I think I’ve had a wet dream that went like this before,” he says with a huff of a laugh to cover up his nervousness.

“Oh? And how did it end?” asks Enjolras, sliding the length of his torso across Grantaire’s bare chest to whisper in Grantaire’s ear.

“I woke up,” says Grantaire self-deprecatingly.

Enjolras leans back and Grantaire thinks that he sees a little frown, but it’s gone in an instant and Enjolras grabs his hands, steering them from where they rest on Enjolras’s hips across his back and down to his arse, stopping when Grantaire’s fingertips can feel the sticky coolness of the lube. Enjolras has a really fine arse, just plump enough for Grantaire to have two nice handfuls to grope and he shivers as he watches Enjolras lower himself onto Grantaire's cock.

"You feel good," says Enjolras and Grantaire feels Enjolras clench around him. He whimpers. It feels different without a condom, hotter and more intense, and apparently Enjolras is feeling the same difference as he experimentally moves up and down a few times, looming over Grantaire and biting his lip. "I've never done this before."

"Really?" Grantaire has got to the point where he assumes that Enjolras has tried everything once by this point, because it's less stressful than being shocked every time Enjolras brings up some kink, and it's a very bizarre, macho sort of pride that swells up in him that for once, just once, he's done something that Enjolras hasn't.

"Never found... someone... I could trust," says Enjolras as he starts up a proper rhythm for riding Grantaire.

Grantaire grunts, because Enjolras is somehow managing to ride him and talk and clench right when he's all the way down so that he's tight around Grantaire when he pulls up and Grantaire is mostly just lying there and curling his toes in pleasure and unable to even think about multi-tasking.

"Never found someone who still trusted you after being internet stalked?" Grantaire manages to say eventually, his response far too delayed to be remotely funny, but Enjolras huffs a laugh anyway. His abs tremble as he does and Grantaire places a hand on Enjolras's stomach, enjoying the silky soft skin and the toned muscles and the quiver in them both that intensifies when Grantaire finally scrabbles his feet flat onto the bed and thrusts his hip upwards.

"Fuck," says Enjolras. "Fuck, Grantaire, please, again." Grantaire obliges.

There's the slippery slickness of lube smeared across Enjolras's arse and the slap of flesh upon flesh and Enjolras's stomach heaving and uneven and Enjolras spasming erratically around Grantaire's cock. There's Enjolras's breathing, ragged and wet and warm near his shoulder as Enjolras leans over and moans, losing his control over staying upright, and Enjolras's hands, tight over his biceps. There's Enjolras, limp and soft in the space between their bodies and the way he goes hard almost instantly as Grantaire curls his fingers around Enjolras's cock and the way he rubs forward and keens, caught between Grantaire on both sides and Enjolras, Enjolras everywhere as Grantaire slides an arm around the taut curve of his waist and fucks up into him and pulls him closer.

"Grantaire," says Enjolras, and then there's Enjolras spilling in hot spurts across both of their stomachs, his hands now so tight on Grantaire's bicep that it hurts, it hurts good, and the little crack creeping into his voice as he repeats, "Grantaire, Gran _taire_ ," and Grantaire just comes undone.

"Oh!" A little high-pitched gasp is Enjolras's reaction when Grantaire comes into his arse and he muffles the rest of it against Grantaire's shoulder until Grantaire stills his hand and slows to a slight rocking motion. His legs seem to lock in position, suddenly too tired to even straighten and collapse onto the bed and Enjolras stays on top of him, breath slowly, slowly evening out.

"I love you," Grantaire says, caught up in his post-coital high of Enjolras, Enjolras, so much Enjolras. "Shit," he exhales, breaking into helpless laughter. "Sorry."

"What're you apologising about?" Enjolras's fingers are lightly running through one of Grantaire's curls, as if he's too exhausted to move more than two fingers.

"I didn't want to be that guy who only says _I love you_ after sex." Grantaire feels like he should feel more repentant, but it's hard to feel repentant about anything after that.

Enjolras nuzzles his nose into Grantaire's cheek. " _I_ love you after sex," he says fuzzily.

Grantaire laughs. "I love you after sex too," he says, and decides that it's futile to try and work logic into post-coital Enjolras. They can talk about his misunderstanding later.

"Of course," says Enjolras, "I love you before sex and during sex and when there's no sex involved at all too."

"Oh." Grantaire pets his hands up the length of Enjolras's back and looks up at the ceiling and decides that it's too much effort to hide the stupid grin on his face.

"Stop thinking," whispers Enjolras. "Too much thinking. I can hear you thinking." He rolls sideways, spilling himself off Grantaire's chest and Grantaire follows him like a flower toward the sun, and he tucks himself onto his side so that he can look at Enjolras properly. Enjolras slides their legs together and leans forward for a long, languid kiss, his tongue sliding over Grantaire's. It's the kind of kiss that's really three, four, five kisses all together, when they start to pull apart and decide that they want more and lean back in until Grantaire's out of air.

"If you want to properly convince me," says Enjolras, smiling wickedly, "you could always tell me that you love me later too. Maybe multiple times, just to make sure I've got the message."

"I love you," says Grantaire stupidly, because he doesn't have any better words.

"Do you like Chicago?"

“What?” Grantaire blinks at Enjolras, going cross-eyed when Enjolras licks just the tip of his nose.

"Chicago. Do you like it?"

"I've never been," says Grantaire, utterly lost.

“Are you free in March?”

“I’m self-employed, Enjolras, I think we’ve established that I am free whenever I want to be.”

“The Grabbys are in March.”

“Huh?”

Enjolras stretches languidly like a cat and looks at Grantaire with an impossibly bright grin. “Gay porn awards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short epilogue to go!


	17. Epilogue

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. Oh my god, stop asking or I might actually change my mind.” Grantaire pulls a face, and Enjolras pops a kiss on his lips. He can feel it in the way that Enjolras gently cups his face with his hands and leans into him that it’s a pre-emptive thank you.

“Come on, you two, save it for the camera,” says Courfeyrac, helping Jehan set everything up.

“You’ve got to know that this is the least romantic romance set I’ve ever seen, right?” says Grantaire very seriously, gesturing around them. He had assumed that there would be shades of pink and red everywhere, a huge vase of flowers on the coffee table and a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates with a delicately tied ribbon. Whilst he’d been expecting the red bed silks to make an appearance, almost everything else looks much the same as usual. “I thought there would be rose petals across the sheets at _least_.”

"You wouldn't be suggesting that if you had ever tried it," says Jehan, screwing his face up. "The first Valentine's video we ever tried to shoot. Pulpy mushed rose petal stuck on you everywhere, and we never could get the stains out of the sheets so it looks like someone bled all over them and—"

"I get the point," says Grantaire hastily. "No rose petals during sex."

"I don't think it needs any more," says Enjolras, looking steadily more worried as though this is a reflection on his personal treatment of Grantaire. "Do you think it needs more?" The question is aimed at Combeferre, who raises an eyebrow.

"I think it's hilarious you're asking me about romantic gestures when your boyfriend is _right there_ ," he says simply and Enjolras sighs.

Grantaire pats him on the arm. "It's all right. I don't really believe in cheesy gestures either. I just thought that there would be some."

"We produce porn," says Enjolras uncertainly, not quite willing to just let it go. "Not romance films."

"Enjolras." Grantaire cups his hands around Enjolras's face and physically drags him from where he's looking at the bed forlornly to make serious eye contact. It's a little bemusing that he is not the hopeless one when it comes to these things. "It's okay. This was not some comment on your inability to romance or boyfriend, I swear."

"Did you just make verbs out of nouns?"

"Boyfriend is _so_ a verb. To boyfriend. I boyfriend, you boyfriend, he-she-it boyfriends." Grantaire grins when Enjolras does, finally. "Now how about you stop crushing your Valentine's Day present?"

"Alright, we're all set up. Places please," says Combeferre, calm and comforting and standing there in just his underwear and socks because making everyone else in the room strip down a little had made Grantaire more comfortable about being naked. (Marius, who has on a pair of very patriotic underwear, had blushed when removing his trousers, muttering something about how Cosette liked them and how he hadn't thought he'd be stripping off for anyone but her today.)

Grantaire moves up the bed and Enjolras ties the blindfold around his eyes. There are still strips of light seeping in through the sides when Grantaire moves his head, but not enough that he can actually see what's going on. The blindfold serves a dual purpose — it's there so that he doesn't have to look up from the bed and see all of his boyfriend's best friends staring intently at him as he's trying to have sex and also so that the camera doesn't catch his complete face. He's not sure if he wants a career in porn just yet and this is the perfect way for him to dip a toe in the water, do a special video just for Enjolras and keep his anonymity.

"Just tell me if you need to stop," says Enjolras, and Grantaire can feel him hovering. Grantaire squeezes his hand. "Just say stop and we'll stop and you can take a break or step away if you need to or we don't have to finish the video at all, or—"

"I know," says Grantaire because he does; they've gone over this information so many times in the lead-up to this but he does appreciate Enjolras saying it one last time.

"I'm getting off the bed now."

It's charming how Enjolras is telegraphing his every little move as if Grantaire's a skittish kitten, as if he can't see the shadow move away from him from under the blindfold or feel the bed dip in the opposite direction.

"Lights," says Combeferre, and Grantaire feels the warmth of the lights as they burst on across his skin. "Camera. And action."

The scenario is simple. It's a Valentine's Day special that they're shooting for one of Enjolras's release and Grantaire is 'guest-starring'. Enjolras walks on set as if he's just got home after a long day at work. Grantaire knows what's supposed to be happening, and he can imagine the way Enjolras stops and stares even if he can't see it.

"Hello, what's this?" Enjolras's voice is pleasant and surprised as he walks closer.

"Surprise," says Grantaire dryly. "Ta-daaaa!" They'd practised this together, figuring out how much of their own intimate personal lives they want to bleed through onto the camera. Enjolras had insisted that Grantaire stay as sarcastic and snippy as he was in real life (which was when Grantaire had pinched him in the side and said, "I'll show you _snippy_.") and that's a relief because Grantaire doesn't know how to be anything else and it's a comfort to know that Enjolras not only acknowledges but accepts it too.

"This is a nice present," says Enjolras, which is the understatement of the year given how much ribbon Grantaire is wrapped in. There had been spools and spools of thick, satin ribbon waiting for them when they had turned up at the studios that morning. Watching Enjolras's eyes track the way the red wound across his bare skin, Grantaire had vowed to take some home to experiment for their very own selves, no camera involved. It all cumulates in an intricate artistic bow that had taken Jehan ten minutes to wrap across Grantaire's chest, which is a shame because Enjolras lets his fingers trail up Grantaire's ribcage and then undoes the entire thing with one quick tug.

"Happy Valentine's day," says Grantaire, feeling his cheeks rise in a lopsided smile despite himself, because this is the first year in a very long time that he's had someone to say that to.

Enjolras leans in to give him a thorough, sweet kiss, his hand curling around Grantaire's neck just to rub the tips of his fingers lightly at Grantaire's nape, and Grantaire has never been more sure that Enjolras is not acting, not even a little bit, when he says, "Yes. Yes, it is."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for sticking around for the ride! This fic now comes with [porn recs and tie-ins](http://defractum.tumblr.com/post/76423112556/fic-nsfw-porn-tie-ins).
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com)?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] NSFW](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166664) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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